


Incomplete White Collar Works - Evil Author Day 2019

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Bad Dom Adler, Body Shaming, Dominance/submission, Drug Use, Evil Author Day, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mpreg, Multi, Other, PTSD - Neal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Pollen, Slutty Peter Burke, Solitary Confinement, Submissive Neal, Undercover As Gay, Undercover as a Couple, Unmagical Neal, Wizard Peter Burke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: From 2010 to 2016, I wrote White Collar fan fiction almost exclusively, and of course, there were stories that got started and for a variety of reasons, never finished.  These fifteen (or more) stories are some of the best of the abandoned works in progress (and there are, sadly, I lot more).  I don't see myself going back to writing White Collar full time, but there are a few tales I do want to tell (and those I'm holding onto - maybe for the next Evil Author Day).





	1. Falls Pitiless and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets a call from Mozzie, a terrifying call and he's helpless to fix this.

_Brief and powerless is man's life; on him and all his race the slow, sure doom falls pitiless and dark_ – Bertrand Russell

These days, meeting were dull without Neal’s presence to liven things up. But Peter couldn’t and wouldn’t complain. His friend (and former CI) was attending classes at Columbia, working on a legitimate degree in art conservation. Neal was the proverbial cat, always landing on his feet, and in this case, landing a four-year, all expenses paid scholarship courtesy of Sterling-Bosch, who’d raked in a fortune in tax deductions when they’d donated the Raphael to the National Gallery. 

Clinton, as the team’s SSA, was leading the meeting. Peter was there, as always, to lend his support when needed, but mostly to keep quiet and watch his agents doing their jobs.

From his pocket, his cell phone buzzed – but it wasn’t his work phone, which he’d ignore until the meeting was over. There was an incoming message on his personal phone, and given the time of day and the short list of people who had that number, Peter excused himself with a brief nod to Clinton and stepped out of the conference room to answer it.

The number wasn’t one he’d recognized, the area code was – he believed – from Fargo - and with an annoyed grimace, he was about to send the call to voicemail when his gut screamed at him. So he answered. “Hello?”

He could hear someone breathing at the other end, the sound painfully labored, but no one answered. 

His gut still screaming, he asked, “Is anyone there?”

 _“Peter – ”_

The voice was faint, but Peter recognized it. “Mozzie?”

_“I – I need your help, Peter.”_

“Where are you?” He didn’t think twice about going to Mozzie’s aid. The man never used his name unless it was important.

Mozzie didn’t answer; his breathing just sounded labored, pain filled.

“Moz, come on – talk to me. Tell me where you are.”

_“No. No, you – you can’t come here.”_

Peter ground his teeth – annoyed despite the very real sense of urgency. “I promise not to get Fed cooties all over your precious safe house. Just tell me where you are.”

_“Can’t – not safe. Please, Peter. Stay away.”_

His blood ran cold. “What happened?”

_“Poisoned – everything’s dying.”_

“Mozzie? Talk to me, please.”

There was silence – except for Mozzie’s labored breathing – and Peter didn’t know what to do. Diana stepped out of the conference room and he snagged her. “I need to get a trace on this call – stat.” She looked at him like he was crazy, and he was – this was his personal phone. He pulled her into his office and wrote out both his number and originating number. “Get a trace on this now.” When she hesitated, he snapped, “Do it!”

“Mozzie, what happened.” Peter forced a note of calmness into his voice. “What type of poison? What were you mixing up?” Moz must have somehow managed to concoct something truly dangerous. While waiting for Moz to catch his breath, Peter looked up the number for the city’s HazMat team.

_“Not mixing - no. Bought something, but it …” The words were cut off by the sound of retching. _What the hell was taking Diana so long ?_ “Moz?”_

_To his relief, the retching stopped. _“Sorry - can’t hold it.”__

_“Talk to me, please.”_

__“Bought something - it was booby-trapped.”_ _

_“With what?”_

__“Caesium.”_ _

_Peter did his best not to panic and failed. “Tell me where you are, Moz. Please.”_

__

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz hadn’t planned on dying today. Or tomorrow. Or for quite a few years. But when he realized what was in the hidden compartment in the case of a miniaturize Soviet-era satellite tracker, he knew that all his plans for the rest of his life would remain undone.

The morning had started out so promising - a meeting with Francelli Morecock, who was going to introduce him to a certain semi-retired Latvian arms dealer, Ali Lovash. The man had the goods and then some and Mozzie had walked away from the deal deeply satisfied. Sources for good-quality Russian military surplus were drying up faster than a puddle in the Sahara.

Lovash wanted an obscene amount of money for the tracker, but Moz would have paid twice the amount. There was a hell of a lot of junk in space, and he didn’t trust any government to warn humanity of what was about to fall out of the sky.

He took his prize over to Monday, a derelict warehouse in Hunters Point. Once upon a time, when he’d taken title to the building, the whole area was just weeds-choked empty lots and structures one good storm away. Now the area was filled with industry and people and maybe in another decade, it would even become trendy. At least the block where Monday was located was still empty – if just because he’d purchased the vacant lots on either side when he had the financial liquidity to do so. 

Monday was also one of the few properties that couldn’t be traced back to “Teddy Winters.” He might have been foolishly, stupidly sentimental, but he had _some_ sense of self-preservation.

Except that he didn’t. Not really. He’d taken the tracker out of the box and didn’t even think to don any protective clothing when he examined the strangely heavy case.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_  



	2. Manwhore Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just notes I made for a story about slutty Peter Burke, and of course, the notes killed my interest in writing the story.

It's an AU - Peter's still an FBI agent, but he's a little younger - not much. In his early 40s

He's had a “friends with benefits” relationship with Clinton, who's an architect. Peter has as history of fucking around. He basically hates the idea of commitment. Maybe something traumatic in his past

He realizes that his relationship with Clinton has become a little deeper than that and when Clinton returns from a long business trip, he's going to ask him to move i

Except that when Clinton comes over, he tells Peter that he's met the love of his life and because they are FWB, he needed to tell Peter first

Because he's been commitment phobic all of his life and thinking about asking Clinton to move in was a huge step for him – he kind of goes off the deep end, basically returns to his man-whoring ways (think Brian Kinney from Queer as Folk). He sleeps around but isn’t an arrogant asshole

Peter has two rules - no sex without a condom and never stay the night

He's basically fucking his way through the NYC gay scene

Elizabeth is a good friend and she's worried about him. She’s trying to get Peter to stop with the one-night stands. She thinks they are self-destructive and ridiculous for a man in his mid-forties. She tries to fix him up with her cousin and thinks that Peter would be a lot happier if he settled down - get a dog, a husband

But Peter isn't having any of that. He's not a schmuck but he's just not interested in commitment

Anyway - a few weeks go by and Clinton calls Peter and wants to get together with him at some gay bar in Chelsea

Peter gets there on the early side and muses, "I've tapped almost every man-ass in the place"

Clinton shows up and they talk and Clinton's happy and Peter's happy for him. Clinton wants him to meet David - the love of his life. In fact, David's a doctor at Beth Israel (big hospital in the area) and he'll be stopping by shortly.

Peter's surprisingly okay with it

They talk a bit more and this guy walks by - the most beautiful piece of man-candy Peter's ever seen and then Peter realizes that he tapped that ass last night or last week or whenever

The guy waves and Clinton clearly knows him and there seems to be a lot of affection in Clinton's face when he waves the guy over

Peter's heart sinks - did he fuck his friend's boyfriend?

Nope - Clinton introduces the guy as Neal Caffrey - Clinton had been the lead architect on Neal's new apartment

Neal clearly remembers Peter, and says something about it being nice to put a name to a “face”

Anyway, Neal drifts off and David arrives - it's David Siegel

And Clinton tells Peter that they are getting married

While Peter's genuinely pleased for them - he also begins to wonder if his life is too empty5

Anyway, Clinton and David leave. Peter sees that Neal is still hanging around and he buys him a drink. Which leads to a hookup

They go back to Neal’s place and fuck and Peter leaves.

A few nights later, Peter finds Neal at a club and hook up again.

This happens fairly frequently over the next few months until at some point, Peter realizes that he's only had with Neal

And no one else interests him.

But he still doesn't spend the night and he doesn't see Neal outside of the club scene

They do occasionally talk and Peter tells Neal that he’s known Clinton for a while - they were FwB for a few years but remained friends

Neal says that he wouldn't mind being FwB with Peter - someone to answer a booty call at midnight

Peter – to his surprise, takes Neal up on his offer. He kinda-sorta stops his manwhoring and Neal flits in and out of his life.

 

He always seems to have money but never is employed

One day – Peter is involved in an operation that goes bad. One agent is shot and killed and Peter kills the shooter. He calls Neal – desperate for company and doesn’t think about rules or commitment or anything – he just NEEDS Neal.

El's happy that Peter's "seeing" someone, but despite the pressure she brings to bear, Peter won't even tell her the guy's name. El doesn't give up on trying to fix Peter up with her cousin - Neal, of course.

One Sunday, Peter stands El up for brunch and El's pissed - but she packs everything up and goes over to Neal's apartment

Where she finds Peter wearing little more than a towel. He just got out of the shower – this was the first time he’d spent the night at Neal’s. He had just fucked Neal into oblivion in the shower and was thinking to himself that he might be able to get used to this.

He sees Elizabeth and freaks out. In fact, his freak out is so epic that he barely gets dressed before he’s out the door.

First thing Monday morning, Peter puts in paperwork for a transfer and goes to DC on assignment. It’s a pretty high profile case and could result in a permanent assignment to Headquarters.

As far as Neal – when the relationship started, Neal's was very much like Peter. He was not interested in being tied down. He’d had a difficult childhood – his father treated him like dirt. Was very homophobic. Left most of his money in trust – until Neal turned forty or married a woman of good virtue and stayed married for five years. Fortunately, his trustee is Mozzie, who gives Neal some leeway and a generous income. Neal’s an artist or writer – something creative that his father also thought was not worthwhile.

Anyway – Peter is in DC and runs into Neal at the Smithsonian. They reconnect – Peter awkwardly apologizes for the freakout. Neal’s okay with it. But secretly, he’s not – he had gone to DC in hopes of finding Peter (Clinton told him where Peter went).

They spend the day together and Neal tells Peter that he’s still willing to do the Friends with Benefits thing - Neal jokes about Peter having to plan in advance for a booty call.

Things progress – Neal’s a frequent visitor to DC, but Peter doesn’t go back to NY and Neal starts to wonder where this is going to end.

But eventually, Peter has to make a decision – accept a permanent assignment in HQ or take a promotion in NY. Peter decides that he wants to go back to NY. He doesn't tell anyone.   
Just shows up with a bottle of wine at Neal's apartment.

Neal says to him, "What about your rule - no happily ever afters?"

Because he’s been falling hard for Neal and realizes just what a schmuck he’s been – Neal’s the best thing that ever happened to him. He says, “Well maybe we can work on that.”

FIN

Or maybe an epilogue a few years down the road – Peter and Neal living happily ever after.

  
_NEVER TO BE WRITTEN_   



	3. La Vie Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very young Neal Caffrey is Vincent Adler's submissive in Paris. Vincent throws Neal out into the rain.

Paris In the Rain

_“You need to go. Now.”_

Neal still couldn’t believe those words, spoken so coldly he could almost see the icicles dripping from them. 

_“Why?_

_“You’re boring me, Neal. You’re needy and whiny and I find myself vastly uninterested in anything you have to offer.”_

Vincent’s words had cut him. It was true that he’d not been so enthusiastic about the latest games that the man wanted to play - he didn’t like pain. But this …

_“You are no longer welcome. If you don’t leave, Bruno will be happy to toss you out.”_

Neal had hated Bruno. No, worse - he’d feared him. It wasn’t that the bodyguard was built like a Mack truck and could break him in two with little effort. It was the cruelty in his eyes, the way he looked at Neal like he was barely human. Like he was a bug to be squashed. If he didn’t leave on his own, Neal knew that Bruno would take great delight in removing him from Vincent’s home. And he might not survive the trip to the street.

_“My things…”_

_“You have nothing, Neal. Everything you have came from my hand. And you don’t get to take any of that with you.”_

That hadn’t been true. Neal had moved from his student lodgings in La Defense into Vincent Adler’s palatial home near the Eiffel Tower - he had clothes and art supplies and books - not that he’d kept going to class or working on his art once he’d gotten involved with Vincent, but they were still his…

_“Go now, Neal. And don’t come back.”_

Neal had looked from Vincent to Kate, who was purring like a very happy cat - despite being trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey - to Bruno.

He hadn’t said another word as he left Vincent’s grand house in the 7th Arrondisment and into the night. It was raining - the relentless drizzle so common to Paris in November. Neal knew that it wouldn’t take long before he’d be soaked to the skin, the fine wool of his custom tailored suit, the silk tie he’d donned with such pride, the tissue-thin cotton shirt, would all be ruined.

He walked. The streets of Paris weren’t unfamiliar. He’d been living here for well over a year before he’d fallen into Vincent’s orbit. He loved the city - not just the museums and the ancient monuments, but the old streets that started and ended without any rhyme or reason. Before Vincent, he’d walk for hours - day or night - and find someplace interesting, or at least interesting to his artist’s eye, and sketch. He wasn’t all that sure of his talent - he was good enough to gain admission into one of the greatest art schools in the world, but he always felt like a fraud, and impostor. His teachers had praised his technique but seemed rather dubious about his creativity. In the privacy of his own thoughts, Neal had agreed with them. 

Which had made it all too easy to drop out of _Le Ecole de Beaux Arts_. Vincent had wanted his attention full time, he didn’t want some grubby art student hanging on. He wanted a polished and sophisticated companion, someone he could take pride in. Neal found that he enjoyed the life that Vincent offered. It didn’t take long to gain a deep appreciation for the finer things - the good clothes, the glittering company. Neal knew that he was losing a bit of himself with each new suit, each night at the opera or some gala. He knew, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care.

He thought he loved Vincent. And that love meant doing everything that Vincent wanted. For the most part, he enjoyed what the man wanted. He liked sex - hell, he loved sex, and Vincent could be insatiable. Except that a few months ago, Vincent turned cruel. The occasional light spankings became beatings with a lead-shot paddle, or the buckle end of his belt.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	4. Everyday Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to [How the Heart Approaches What It Yearns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821314/comments/205170164), my White Collar/Harry Potter Crossover. Neal finds out that Peter's a wizard.

"What the hell just happened?" Neal's gaze went from the large marble statue that seemed to magically slide in front of him from its position against the wall, over a dozen feet away, to Peter, who looked like he was tucking a stick into his shoulder holster. The man they'd come to question was pinned behind the statue - apparently unharmed, based on the volume and variety of curses Neal could hear.

"Not now, Neal. Go stand by the door and don't say a word." 

Peter's tone was one he hadn't heard in a very long time, one he'd never thought he'd hear again - stern, angry, commanding.

"I'm not your CI anymore. You can't order me around like in the old days."

"No, but you are still a consultant employed by the Bureau and when I give you an order, I need you to obey it."

Neal ground his teeth, but he didn't argue. Peter was right, and after too many years of working with the Bureau, Neal knew that questioning orders in the middle of an operation was a very bad thing.

Not that this was supposed to be an operation, just a casual inquiry. The Bureau was tracking a wave of illegally imported antiquities and at Peter's suggestion, Neal's company - and specifically Neal - were retained to provide expert advice.

Friday night, Peter had dropped the file on him, literally. He'd been cuddling with Elizabeth when Peter came home, looking pleased to see him but annoyed that he'd missed out on some fun. He'd pulled a folder out of his briefcase and tossed it onto his lap, effectively interrupting their make-out session.

Elizabeth had given a little hrumph as Neal's curiosity got the better of his lust, and when he'd started perusing the file, she got up and gave her husband a taste of what he'd missed. Which probably had been Peter's motivation to begin with.

He'd found this particular case intriguing. The other cases that Peter had asked him to consult on had been items intercepted in Customs - high quality reproductions cleverly designed to hide the original work. But this one was already in possession of the new owner, a British ex-pat with the improbable name of Reginald Fortescue Wallingford Bingley-Whytehead Smith.

Which was why he'd gotten up at the ungodly hour of six AM and joined Peter for a ride up to Bingley-Whytehead Smith's mansion in the upper Hudson valley. The drive through the upstate counties had been pleasant, the rising sun gilding the scenery that was dressed in its finest autumnal garb and at that hour, there was minimal traffic. With time to spare, they'd stopped at a Starbucks in a small town a few miles from their destination. Peter had treated them both to coffee and scones while they waited for the civilized hour of eight AM before calling on the purchaser of an illegally imported volume of Italian Renaissance incunabula.   
Allegedly.

Mr. Bingley-Whytehead Smith had not been happy to find an FBI agent and his art consultant at his door, and had questioned both Peter's warrant, his authority and his intelligence in disturbing "someone of his importance" without so much as an appointment. 

Neal had enjoyed watching Peter chuckle at Bingley-Whytehead Smith's outrage. It was kind of fun falling back into the old roles, letting Peter get into the face of some upper-class twit with pretensions of nobility while he scoped the place. The book was already on display in the library - a lovely room filled with lovely things that Neal, in another life, would have loved to have taken home, except that Peter would be most disappointed in him if he did. He'd smiled to himself at that thought - he was so far gone and he didn't mind. 

Not one bit.

Bingley-Whytehead Smith had fluttered around him, his pinched voice with its British accent as annoying as an insect trapped in a jar, while Neal pulled on a pair of cotton archivist's gloves and carefully examined the volume.

It was another Book of Hours, circa 1490, printed on vellum but hand-decorated in brilliant colors. He'd been surprised that it had survived to this day intact. Volumes like this, with such spectacular ink and gold work, were often broken up and sold by the page. He'd chuckled and thought that at least this time, he wasn't going to get shot.

He'd looked at Peter, standing a few feet away and said, "It's the real thing, and it matches the records from Castello Ridolfi that Interpol sent over."

Neal still couldn't wrap his brain around what happened next.

Bingley-Whytehead Smith pulled out a stick. Not the metaphorical one from his ass, but a real one from inside his jacket - and screamed something that sounded like "abracadabra". From the corner of his eye, Peter reached for his gun, except that instead of his Glock-22, he produced his own stick, which he'd pointed at a Victorian reproduction of the Laocoön and shouted something vaguely Latinate, about wings. The statue sort of flew through the air and pinned good old Bingley-Whytehead Smith to the wall.

And now, like he was still Peter's CI, he was tamely standing by the door while Peter was doing something to Bingley-Whytehead Smith. From his position, watched as Peter continued to behave very oddly. He pushed up Bingley-Whytehead Smith's jacket sleeve, ripped open his shirt cuff and whatever he saw made him really pissed off. He couldn't hear anything from Bingley-Whytehead Smith anymore, but from halfway across the room, Neal clearly heard Peter say "shit".

"What's the matter?"

"Neal - just… just don't ask any questions yet."

Neal ignored those instructions. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"Other than feeling like I've just stepped into an alternate universe, I'm peachy."

"Good. Now shut up."

"Lovely, Peter, simply lovely."

"Neal…"

Beneath the threads of aggravation, Neal could hear the deep worry in his partner's voice. Whatever just happened was something that Peter hadn't expected and created a situation he didn't want to have to deal with - at least not with Neal himself in the vicinity.

So Neal leaned against the doorframe, kept his eyes open, and wondered just what the hell had happened.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It might have been almost twenty-five years since Peter had actively used his magic, but as the old saying went, it was like riding a bicycle. It also helped that his wand was handy, too. That wasn't luck - he didn't decide to start carrying it on a just because basis.

A few months ago, a directive had come down from the FBI's M2 division that all "talented" agents needed to start carrying their wands when on active duty. This had happened before, but nothing ever came of it, and a few weeks or months later, an order came to stand down. As usual, no reasons were given, but there was something about this particular command that had sent his gut churning. So Peter had reached out to some of his old contacts in London and what they told him made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He started carrying his wand in a special slot in his shoulder holster and required all of his staff to follow orders.

Diana had been pissed and the day the order came down, she hadn't hesitated to express her annoyance. She'd long since taken advantage of the Bureau's more relaxed dress code and rarely wore a jacket. Peter had told her to comply or resign. The next day, Diana came in, wearing attire that would provide appropriate coverage. When he commented, she just said that her father had talked to her and that she'd be carrying her wand, even when she was off duty.

Peter just nodded, he was planning on doing the same.

But Reginald Fortescue Wallingford Bingley-Whytehead Smith wasn't the reason for the heightened alert. 

He hadn't even known that the man was a wizard when he'd gotten the file from Customs and tagged Neal for an early morning jaunt through upstate New York. He'd simply thought it would be a nice way to spend the day - they'd get to see some lovely autumn scenery, he'd have some fun hassling another overbred twit who thought that having a hyphenated name made him immune from prosecution, they'd stop at a farm stand on the way home and pick up a couple of pies, and that would be that.

He didn't expect to encounter a former Death Eater.

Who was fortunately a blithering idiot and a barely competent magician who'd lose a dueling contest with a flobberworm. A dead flobberworm. 

If Bingley-Whytehead Smith had been slightly less clumsy when he'd pulled out his wand and a little less thick-tongued as he started to utter the Killing Curse, Neal might now be dead. And that was not something that Peter could bear to let happen, because nothing and no one would take Neal Caffrey from him, not now, not ever.

Peter just wished that Neal hadn't been standing there, looking at him, that he hadn't seem him pull out his own wand and hear him utter the words that sent the nearby piece of granite sliding across the floor like it was on roller skates.

But Neal did see, and while Peter could _obliviate_ the memory, he was loathe to do that to him again. Because it went without saying that Neal Caffrey, even as solid citizen and lover, still had a way of complicating _everything_.

Still trapped behind that god-awful statue, Bingley-Whytehead Smith was alive and well and doing everything possible to make things worse for himself. Peter muttered _silencio_ to shut the asshole up - he didn't need his wand for that tiny bit of magic - and checked the man's wrist for the Dark Mark. It was there, although faded like a very old scar. The timing was right - according to Interpol, Bingley-Whytehead Smith had moved semi-permanently to the U.S. in June, 1998, a month after Voldemort had been defeated.

Peter sighed and turned his back to Neal, who was staring at him like he'd grown a second head. How he wished the Ministry had evolved past its Victorian fetish for convoluted spells and Rube Goldberg-like contraptions, and adopted more modern communications, like M2 had. He cast another spell to contact the magical authorities in England - the Aurors - and advised them that he had a fugitive that they needed to pick up and take home. They didn't seem to care, at least not until Peter mentioned that Bingley-Whytehead Smith had cast the Killing Curse.

Unbelievably, the idiots put him on hold. Something Peter didn't even think was possible. About ninety seconds later, there was a series of loud pops from the outer room - the sound of air displacing.

Bingley-Whytehead Smith had a port-key and someone - a group of someones - just used it.

This was turning bad very quickly. Peter rushed over to Neal, dragged him behind a couch, and drew his wand. Neal, thankfully, didn't say a word. He just stared at him.

Two men and a woman strode into the room, and Peter relaxed just a bit when he saw that they were wearing Aurors' robes. One of them called his name, his accent unmistakable British, "Burke? Are you still here?"

Peter pushed Neal back to the floor when he started getting up and signaled him to stay down and quiet. He got up and walked around the couch to greet the team that just happened to show up. "That was quick."

"Good old Reggie had a one-way port-key - right from the Ministry's office."

"So you knew he was here?"

"Yeah - the Wizengamot gave him a conditional pardon. Exile and a broken wand. And the port-key."

"Looks like his wand wasn't all that broken."

"I guess he found another one. Can't help that."

Peter was, in a word, furious. "So you just dumped a Death-Eater on us? Not a word."

The Auror looked at the other members of his team and they collectively shrugged. "Reggie could barely harm a fly."

"He cast the Killing Curse."

"And it looks like he failed. Good work, Burke. Heard you'd gone all Muggle like the rest of the Americans who came over after the War. Nice to see that there are some wizards here who know what they're doing."

All too conscious that Neal was a mere ten feet away and hearing every word spoken made Peter even less interested in continuing this conversation. "Get this asshole back to where he belongs, and if I find more of his kind freely running around, no one in your damn Ministry is going to be happy."

One of the Aurors looked like she was about to say something but Peter glared at her and she shut her mouth. As a group, they took charge of "good old Reggie", moved the statue back to its place against the wall and left the room. Four loud pops later and Peter gave Neal the all-clear. "You can come out now."

Neal stood up, brushed the dust off his pants and asked the same question he'd asked about ten minutes earlier, "What the hell just happened?"

"Would it be too much to ask you to wait until we got home?"

Neal gave him a searching look, and whatever he saw on his face seemed to quell his curiosity for the moment. "What about the Book of Hours?" Neal tilted his head towards the volume that sent them here in the first place. 

"Good thinking. We do need to take that with us." 

Neal, still wearing those cotton gloves, went and scooped the book up and put in in the evidence bag Peter took from his jacket. "What about the rest of the stuff here? It doesn't sound like dear old Reggie’s going to be back anytime soon."

Thoroughly aggravated with the entire situation, Peter simply said, "Call Moz. I'm sure he'll know what to do with everything."

Neal stood there, mouth opened like he'd been _stupified_.

"Come on, if we're lucky, we'll be back in Brooklyn before lunch."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	5. Undercover Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Burke, senior case agent for the White Collar Division, is asked to take an under-cover assignment with Special Agent Neal Caffrey, a career deep cover agent. They need to go down to the Caribbean and pretend to be lovers to shut down a blackmailer, Vincent Adler, who is using his resort as a way to blackmail government officials.

Peter looked up from the pile of folders he was going through; marking ones for assignment to the staff of agents he managed. Reese Hughes, his boss and mentor, was at his door, and from the expression on his face, it didn't look good.

"Burke, my office, fifteen minutes."

"Sure." He checked his email, just in case he'd missed something important – not that Reese would call him on the carpet. They'd worked together for too many years for him not to just come out and tell him he'd screwed up. This had to be something bigger. 

He continued to peruse the case files and making notes about assignments and expectations. It wasn't a particularly enjoyable task, since there were at least a half-dozen cases he'd like to be working himself. But he wasn't a field agent anymore and while he had the occasional opportunity to get out of the office, most of the time it was running an op from the van. 

Not that he ever regretting taking the promotion. The Bureau had a decent record with gay and lesbian agents and staff these days, but he was the first climb the management ladder here in the largest and most visible field office in the country. 

Peter was again distracted when two unfamiliar agents walked past his office. At least he assumed they were agents, which wasn't necessarily a smart thing to do. But they were in suits, with the right body type, and more importantly, the correct gait. FBI agents had their very own stride that was hard to replicate, or even accurately describe. It was purposeful, but not a swagger – at least not with good agents who knew that ego was best kept in check.

His desk phone buzzed. It was Reese, but he still had a few minutes. Except that he didn't. _"My office, now."_

Peter went into his boss' office and Reese handed him a file with an unexpected apology. "Sorry about this. You've got five minutes to read this. And then you need to pretend you never saw it."

He took the file with a raised eyebrow at the cryptic instruction. The folder wasn't a case file, but personnel file – the kind that usually don't leave FBI directors' offices without all sorts of repercussions.

There were no pictures, and there were large swaths of data covered by "restricted" flags, but from what Peter could read, this file belonged on a very deep cover agent. Not the kind who worked the mob or the drug trade, but counter-terrorism at the highest levels. Government levels.

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit. And this just landed in your lap."

"Seriously?"

"As a fucking heart attack. You did say you missed the field."

"Why me?"

"You've still got a handful of active aliases. You're sneaky. And no one would suspect. You look like everyone's all-American, and that's the cover the op needs."

"So – I'm basically playing Kevin Costner in _No Way Out_ , except that I'm actually a double agent."

"In a nutshell, yes. You can always turn it down."

His life would be a lot simpler if he did.

"And honestly, you're wasted as a manager, Peter. You know that."

He shrugged. "I like to think my promotion was earned, that I'm not here to tick a box in someone's diversity checklist."

"You're not – and we don't have time to discuss your insecurities. We've got agents waiting." Reese took the folder back from him and put it in his safe. "Remember, you know nothing about this."

Peter nodded, grateful he wasn't going into the meeting blind. He followed Reese into the conference room, and as he suspected, the two men who'd passed his office a few minutes ago were in there. Even without the shiny gold badge on his belt, he could tell the one was definitely an agent. His regulation short-back-and-sides haircut, worn wingtips, and slightly shabby Brooks Brothers' suit was the style of choice for mid-level agents throughout the country. 

The other man was wearing something highly tailored, possibly Italian. His shoes were definitely Italian. The tie bar was vintage, and if Peter wasn't mistaken, Cartier. He was leaning against the wall, a rather ridiculous trilby covering half his face. If Peter hadn't seen the file in Reese's office, and hadn't seen both men walk by, he might not have been so certain that this man was an FBI agent, too.

But then the man shifted his stance and suddenly, Peter was convinced. It was a small thing, going from his right to his left foot, but it was like a bill board in Times Square. This was a man ready to reach for his gun. Except that he wasn't carrying – the lines of that finely tailored suit would have betrayed a shoulder holster. 

Peter kept to the back and waited for Reese to make introductions.

"Peter, this is Special Agent Mitch Landry from the Los Angeles field office." 

Peter held out his hand and Agent Landry took it. His grip was firm but he wasn't trying to get into a pissing contest – Peter had dealt with too many agents over the years who thought that breaking a hand was the best was to prove their worth. "Welcome to New York." 

"Tell me, should I or should I not get a hot dog from a street cart?"

Peter blinked, that usually wasn't a question he was asked on a first meeting – or ever. "Well, we do call them dirty water dogs for a reason."

The other agent laughed. "Mitch is kind of obsessed with hot dogs."

Peter figured he'd offer a little New Yorker wisdom on that score, "Well, you could head uptown to Papaya King, or to Coney Island for a Nathan's original."

Landry nodded. "Thanks, will do." To Peter's shock, he waved and left.

"Is he really going to get a hot dog?" Peter looked at Reese, who shrugged but didn't seem otherwise put out.

The man in the good suit answered. "Probably – I wasn't kidding about Mitch and hot dogs."

Peter held out his hand. "We haven't been introduced. You are?"

"Neal Caffrey."

"Pleasure to meet you, Agent Caffrey."

"I didn't say I was an agent."

"But you are." Peter wished he'd take off that ridiculous hat.

"Why do you say that, Agent Burke?"

"When I entered the room, you shifted your weight from right to left, as if you were going to reach for your gun."

"I'm not carrying."

"No, you're night – not in that suit. But you're accustomed to it. And you walk like an FBI agent, too." Peter looked over Caffrey, from head to toe. "I'd put you as a ten-year veteran, probably recruited fresh out of Harvard. Or maybe Princeton?. At least four languages – and I'm guessing French, German, Japanese and … Russian?"

"No Russian. Italian. You're very good at reading people, Agent Burke."

Peter grinned and thought it was a pity he couldn't tell this man that he'd deliberately flubbed the last one. The file he'd just read noted that this deep-cover agent actually spoke nine languages, but none of them was Russian.

"What brought you and Agent Landry to New York?"

Caffrey sat down, took off his hat and dropped it on the conference table. Peter blinked. The man was … exquisite. He also looked exhausted.

"Landry's technically not with me."

"He's your handler?"

Caffrey flicked a gaze up at Reese, who hadn't said anything since the initial introduction. Reese nodded.

"Yeah. We go back a ways. He's been my connection into the Bureau for about three years."

"You're just coming off an assignment?"

"Yeah."

Reese sat down and gestured for Peter to do the same. "This situation isn't optimal and the AD assures me that the operation won't drag on forever."

"I've had those assurances before, Agent Hughes. Last time I got that promise, I was undercover for eighteen months."

Reese had the grace to look a bit sheepish. "I know how those things go. But this is a case that's going to need to close in pretty short order."

"I've heard that before, too." Caffrey glanced over at him, and Peter felt a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "What's with him? He's going to be my new handler?"

"No, Burke's going in with you."

"Seriously? No insult, Agent Burke, but you scream senior LEO. You could be NYPD or DEA or a Marshal or even military. You won't last five minutes under cover."

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_  



	6. Regency AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter on a horse. Neal on a horse. High boots. Tight breeches. Riding crop. 
> 
> 'Nuff said.

Lord Peter Burke, seventh Earl of Westen, was a wealthy and powerful man. As a peer of the realm, he was a man of property, a mansion in London and several estates throughout England. Despite this wealth, despite the power he wielded, he was a man of uncomplicated wants and needs. He had a wife, Elizabeth, but no heirs yet, she was young and there was still plenty of time for that. He had dogs for the hunt and for the simple pleasure of companionship. Horses filled his stables.

He loved his wife. He loved his dogs. He loved his horses too.

He had servants to oversee his least little desire. His servants. Those he did not love. That would be absurd.

Except for one very pretty, very enticing groom. 

He didn’t precisely _love_ the lad...and what the did together would certainly see both of them hanged, but there was something about Neal Caffrey that just made him...well, a little crazy.

It started late last autumn, after the hunt season ended. A dozen foxes - the vermin - had been bagged. His guests had gone back to their own estates. Peace and quiet settled over the estate.

Lady Elizabeth was back in London for the Little Season - he’d be joining her once Parliament was in session. But now - this was his time. He liked to ride the land, at dawn, at sunset. He liked the smell of burning peat and the sound his horse’s hooves made as they crushed the stubble in the fields.

He also liked the feeling of coming home, riding into the stables and caring for his horse. The smell of the saddle leather, the sweat of the horse mingling with the wool of the pad and blanket, the feel of the tack, the sounds the straps and buckles made as he unbridled his mount.

Nights like this, he’d take the time to curry and groom his horse, letting whatever stresses of the day that remained after his ride dissipate in the repetitive motions of currying, the susurration of the brushes against the warm, healthy coat.

“Milord, would you like me to do that for you?”

Peter looked up. There was a young man at the door of the stall, dressed in the uniform of stable boys throughout England – worn boots, rough trousers and shirt and a woolen sweater. But he looked like no other stable boy in his employ. In fact, he was strongly reminded of a painting he had seen in Italy as a much younger man on the Grand Tour.

“Who are you?”

“Neal Caffrey, Milord.”

“When did you start?”

“This morning, Milord.”

The words were subservient, but the tone wasn’t. Peter didn’t think he ever heard the term “milord” conveyed with such disrespect. Actually, that wasn’t the right way to put it – it wasn’t disrespect, it was a total lack of respect, as if the boy didn’t particularly care that the man he was addressing held his livelihood and well being in his hands.

There was a look in the lad’s face too – mischief, humor, and something else. The boy smiled and Peter felt an answering grin curve his own lips.

Neal stepped out of the shadows, into the stall and the light from the lantern revealed that he was neither a boy nor a lad – but a man fully grown.

“Milord, are you sure I can’t finish this for you?” The light also revealed a chiseled jaw, arching cheekbones and pair of ice blue eyes. For some reason, the breath caught in the back of Peter’s throat.

He keep currying his horse, it gave him something to do with hands. Hands which were suddenly damp and sweaty and slightly shaking.

“No, no thank you.” Theoretically, Peter didn’t have to say thank you – his father and grandfather (both very good men) never would have. According to them, one didn’t thank the servants; it gave them ideas above their station. But Peter always thought it was demeaning not to do so. 

The man seemed to realize this, and there was the tiniest smirk at the corner of his lips. 

Caffrey stood there, unnerving Peter. “I care for my own rides – that will be all.” Peter put generations of repressive authority into his dismissal, and the man seemed to see right through him. But he gave the obligatory tug on his forelock and left Peter in the stall, alone with his horse and his rather bizarre thoughts.

__________________

He didn’t see Caffrey again the next following week. It had rained steadily for four days, keeping him housebound, and climbing the walls. But the day dawned bright and sunny and Peter wasn’t going to be kept inside a moment longer than necessary. He sent word that his gray should be saddled and waiting for him.

When he walked into the stable yard, Neal was leading out the hunter that Peter was going to ride. 

“G’day, milord.” Caffrey tugged on his forelock.

Again with the vaguely disrespectful attitude. The man’s posture was correct and his tone was correct and even the tug on his forelock was correct, but Peter read a wealth of disdain there. Neal’s eyes weren’t lowered to the ground. Instead, they met him full on, and Peter once again felt that strange sensation. 

If this were a ballroom instead of the stable yard, and if Neal were a lady dressed in a fine gown rather than a stable boy in rough woolen trews and a threadbare linen shirt, he might label the feeling as attraction. But since Neal was not a silk-gowned lady, whatever Peter felt was not attraction, _could not be attraction_.

Where the next words came from, Peter wasn’t quite sure.

“Can you ride, boy?” 

Caffrey’s shoulders went back at the insulting “boy.” 

_Good - you should be ill at ease_

“Yes, milord. I can ride.” Now Caffrey’s tone was truly insolent.

Peter couldn’t resist taunting him further. “Can you ride well, or are you going to sit like a sack of grain on the back of one of my hunters?”

“I can ride.” Those blue eyes turned a shade of steel and the cheeky grin tightened into something that reflected pricked pride. And the broad country accent seemed to disappear into the clipped tones of a wellborn gentleman. 

Peter looked Neal over with a critical eye. “You can’t ride in those.” He gestured with his crop. The hobnailed boots wouldn’t fit into the stirrups. “There should be groom’s livery in the storage room that fits you. I’ll wait. And when you’ve got your livery, saddle up the bay - he could use some exercise” 

He tapped his crop against the side of his boot, flicking it impatiently. He couldn’t help but notice how Neal’s eyes followed the movement. _Interesting_

He tried not to stare at the stable boy’s retreating ass. The woolen trews he was wearing were well-worn and cupped his backside nicely. Peter shook his head and tried to dispel such errant thoughts.

A half-dozen times, Peter thought about just getting into the saddle and riding off. Since he was sixteen years old, he hadn’t taken a groom with him when he rode over his own lands. There was no need for it. Westen – its manor and home farm, its village and its cluster of tenant farms were quietly prosperous – he made sure of that. Taking a groom with him was not necessary for his personal safety, no one would dare attack him on his own property – but something about Caffrey irked him. He couldn’t seem to get him out of his head, after just a few brief words last night. The man was a servant, with boots covered in horse shit, hay in his hair and lord knows when he bathed last.

He was disgusted with himself - to have even an idle thought about a servant. 

Men of his class rarely scrupled to keep their hands off their servants – and they regaled their companions with stories of how they seduced the upstairs maid or their sister’s governess or the cook’s assistant. To Peter, those acts were akin to rape – servants couldn’t say no. To refuse the master’s attention would get them thrown out without their wages.

No, Peter did not abuse his servants – he treated them, or at least tried to treat them as fellow human beings. The Golden Rule, and all that.

And yet, here he stood in his own stable yard, waiting for a young man to come out – and he was going to do what to him?

His horse flicked its tail at a fly, sending it in Peter’s face, he swatted at it with the crop, killing it.

But that didn’t even register when Caffrey came out of the horse barn, leading his bay hunter. This wasn’t the same man whom he had dismissed with instructions to find some old livery. He was expecting Caffrey to find an ill-fitting jacket and a pair of riding boots. Not a pair of skin tight black buckskin breeches, a royal blue jacket that looked like it was tailored for him and knee high boots polished better than his own. 

Peter recognized the livery - it was from his father’s day, commissioned when the King had come to visit, in the years before he went completely mad. 

He hoisted himself into the saddle and watched as Neal practically vaulted onto the bay. He wondered how he managed with such skin tight breeches. 

With a touch of the crop to his hunter’s withers, Peter cantered off without out a word, expecting Neal to follow.

The clatter of shod hooves against the cobbles of the stable yard changed to soft thuds as Peter road across his park lands and into the small forest. He needed to check out the condition of an upstream dam. His land steward was concerned about the potential for flooding if the coming winter was a wet one.

The ride was tricky - there were several streams and boggy areas to cross, and Peter regretted taking Neal along. He had only the man’s word that he could ride, and he didn’t want any harm to come to the bay if Neal couldn’t keep a proper seat.

He fell back and watched Neal carefully maneuver the big horse around a patch of bog and through the trees. The man was a natural rider and Peter was reminder of the old Greek classics that he studied at Oxford - the tales of the centaurs. Neal’s seat was so perfect that he may as well be part of the horse.

Caffrey drew up beside him. “Everything satisfactory, milord?” The man was taunting him, Peter could see that now.

“You’re awfully mouthy for a stableboy.”

“Sorry, milord.”

He was close enough to see Caffrey’s eyes drop. 

“You haven’t been in service long have you?”

The man looked up at him, startled and actually a little fearful.

 _Good_ Peter brought his horse closer, practically brushing up against the bay. And then he shocked himself. “I find your lack of servile obedience rather interesting.” _Did those words really come out of my mouth?_

He moved on, leaving those words hanging in the air.

__________________

The earthworked dam at the upper end of the large stream was in poor condition, and Peter had to concur with his steward that it wouldn’t last through a wet winter. He would send for an engineer to develop plans for a replacement later today.

Now he was able to turn his attention to the other conundrum of the day – Neal Caffrey, erstwhile stableboy, groom and all-around fraud. This wasn’t democratic America, where class and status supposedly didn’t matter. He should have realized from the moment that he introduced himself the other night, that Caffrey wasn’t _really_ a stableboy or even a groom. In truth, he carried himself like a young lord, merely playacting at servility like the late Marie Antoinette did in the gardens at La Petit Trianon. He spoke like a lord, too – when goaded to anger.

Peter was bemused at the thought of some younger son slumming

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	7. Male Model Neal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Male Model Neal. Doesn't the very thought of that make your brain explode?

New York City – 1997

Someone was knocking on his door, and it didn't sound like they were going to go away anytime soon. Neal stuck the five hundred dollars he'd just "won" in a three-card monte game into a hollowed out book and checked the peephole.

 _Shit._ It was the dealer and he didn't look too happy. Neal stepped back and wished that he hadn't taken an illegal basement apartment. The windows were barred and there was no other way out.

"Come on, kid. Open up – I'm not going to hurt you." The guy was knocking insistently, but he wasn't banging. "Come on, I won't hurt you."

"Why should I believe you?" Now that was a dumbass thing to do. If he'd kept his mouth shut, the guy would have eventually gone away.

"Non-violence is the greatest force at the disposal of mankind. It is mightier than the mightiest weapon of destruction devised by the ingenuity of man."

Neal swallowed and opened the door. But he didn't let the guy in. "Seriously, you're quoting Gandhi to me?"

The man shrugged. "Would you prefer Alan Alda? 'When people are laughing, they're generally not killing each other.' "

Neal smiled. Frankly, this guy didn't seem like he could kill a fly. "What do you want?"

"If I said 'my money back' would you give it to me?"

"No. I won it fair and square – if a rigged three-card monte game could ever be considered 'fair'."

"How did you know it was rigged?"

"Aren't they all?"

"Of course they are, but how did you know mine?"

"My dad was a cop, he worked bunko and taught me what to look for. The edge of the deuce was bent, but there was a scratch along the back of the Queen of Hearts." Neal leaned back against the table. "Now, if you're not going to beat me up to get your money back, why are you here?"

"Well, I do want my money back. I need it."

"So do I. I need to pay my rent." Neal crossed his arms over his chest.

"I need it for my medication."

"Really?" Neal was skeptical. "Come on, you can do better than that."

"I'm serious. I've got Type-1 diabetes." The man lifted his shirt to reveal a small device attached to his waist. "Believe me now?"

Neal wasn't sure. His dad had told him all about the different types of grifts he'd encountered over the years. 

"You don't, do you."

Neal shook his head. "Playing on my sympathy is a good one. You might have done better if you told me you had AIDS."

"Hmm, maybe. But that's something hard to lie about." The guy wandered around his tiny apartment, peering at his easel, poking through the mess of paints and brushes, flipping through his sketchpad. He picked up a wine glass and sniffed at it. "And anyway, I'm telling you the truth. The supplies are expensive."

"Don't you have insurance?" Neal wondered what it was going to take to get this man out of his apartment.

"Insurance, you've got to be kidding me. You think I want my name and all my personal information in the universal database?"

"I'm not giving you back your money." Neal repeated. "You can run another game. There are plenty of tourists looking to be taken."

The guy wiped out the glass with his shirt and poured the last of the wine Neal had been saving into it. He took a sip, made a face and then swallowed the rest of it.

"How old are you, kid?"

"Twenty, and what's it to you?"

"Just wanted to make sure you're legal."

"Legal for what?" 

"If you're not going to give me the money back, maybe you'd be interested in helping me earn some cash."

"I'm not interested in running a con with you." 

"Not talking about a con, kid. This is legit employment, and believe me, I rarely do legit – employment or otherwise."

"My name is Neal, not 'kid'." When the man didn't reply in kind, he added, "That was the cue to tell me yours."

"Oh, you can call me Moz."

Neal doubted that that was the man's real name, but it was better than nothing. "Okay, _Moz_ , what's the job?"

"Your face – it's going to make us a fortune."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Paris – 2003

Neal rolled over and away from the sunlight streaming into the room. His head ached and his body felt uncomfortably sore.

"Get up."

Neal didn't move, except to bury his face in the pillow.

"I said, _get up_. Get your ass out of my bed." Woodford's normally posh accent was unpleasantly harsh, more than hinting at his South London origins.

Neal sat up, confused. "Alan? What's the matter?" 

"We're done. You're booked on a flight back to New York. You've got three hours to get your ass to the airport."

"I don't understand." None of this made sense. He was supposed to be leading off tomorrow's runway show – Woodford's couture menswear line – not going back to New York.

"You safe-worded last night." 

Neal blinked, trying to remember. Last night was a fucked up mess. They'd gone clubbing after the last round of fittings. There was a lot of cocaine and even more Ecstasy. Too much vodka, too much tequila, too much noise and lights and …

_Oh._

Neal remembered. 

"I can't believe you wanted me to do that."

"There's nothing to discuss, Caffrey. We're done."

"I have a contract." He did. Moz made sure of that.

"Sue me."

Neal took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. "I don't think you really want me to do that, do you? All your filthy habits aired? No one gives a shit about the drugs, but they might be interested in your other interests." He swallowed hard against the nausea. 

Woodford stared at him and Neal stared back. In truth, he wasn't all that unhappy about this break. Alan was getting stranger every day, the violence that had been a thrill when it was kept tightly leashed, was becoming a bit terrifying. But he wasn't going to walk out with nothing.

"What do you want to keep your mouth shut?"

Neal thought quickly. As a top male model, he made a pittance in comparison to his female peers. Last year, his best one – he netted a quarter-million dollars and he worked both the runway and print in an exclusive contract with Woodford. Gisele Bunchen made ten times that and worked half the hours he did. But a quarter-million was nothing to sneeze at. And that was the figure he gave Woodford.

"You serious?"

"As a heart attack. You want me to keep my mouth shut, Alan? Well, you're going to have to pay me." Neal kept his voice and his eyes steady. "And I want it wired to my bank account, right now. No checks – you can cancel one way too easily." Neal got out of bed, wincing. Woodford had taken his frustration at Neal's lack of compliance out on his ass. He found a robe and put it on. "And if you think I'm running away with my tail between my legs, think again." 

"You think you have the upper hand, don't you? You're nothing without me. And the money – it's nothing, too. You'll put it up your nose quickly enough and then you'll have nothing. In a year, you'll be turning tricks for a line of blow." 

Woodford was putting up a good front, but Neal could see him sweating. "Call your bank, Alan. If you don't, it's your career that'll be over. I have friends you know nothing about." 

Woodford blinked and licked his lips. "Maybe we can rewind this morning? Forget what happened last night. You'll do the show as planned and we'll continue our … association."

Neal didn't answer for the space of a dozen heartbeats, pretending to think it over. "No. You're right, we're done. Let's part on good terms." Neal stood at Woodford's shoulder. "Call your bank."

And just like that, Woodford did. Neal listened as he ordered the money transfer. When the bank asked for the routing information, Neal plucked the phone out of Woodford's hand and gave it to the clerk directly. He held onto the phone until he received the transfer confirmation number and then hung up.

"And that, Alan, is that."

Neal found his clothes and the key to his own hotel suite and left. He had no doubts that Woodford would make good on his threats to have him blackballed out of the cozy little world of men's couture. He didn't mind – it was getting old. _He_ was getting old. He wanted something more than eternal boyhood. While the heroin chic look never really took hold in his niche – high end men's couture, the up-coming "it look" was androgynous to the point of girlishness. Neal knew that he was going to have a hard time pulling that off. Five years ago, when he was twenty, he might have made it work. At twenty-five, his frame had filled out and unless he starved himself, he'd always have broad shoulders, strong pecs and a bubble ass.

Modeling had been easy money – especially in the beginning – but it had gotten harder over the last year. Woodford had taken a shine to him and insisted on an exclusive contract, which Neal hadn't minded. He also hadn't minded being Woodford's bedmate. The man was kinky, and at first, those kinks had complemented his own. But in the past few months, Woodford had gotten into areas that troubled Neal. A little pain was okay, but not when it was served up with an unhealthy dose of humiliation. 

It was time to get out with his soul intact.

Besides, Mozzie wasn't doing too well. He needed someone to watch over him. Someone to keep him away from all the things that he loved, like wine and chocolate and pasta, all the things that were killing him.

It was time to go home and get his life back in order and Woodford's quarter million was going to make that process a lot easier.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

New York – 2013

"Happy birthday, Peter!"

The birthday boy closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, the cake with two candles, on in the shape of a "5" and the other, a "0", was still in front of him. His team was still standing in the office, wearing birthday hats and carrying presents – even the normally dyspeptic Reese – and smiling.

He smiled back, because there was nothing worse than being a killjoy, even if the last thing he wanted to do was celebrate his half-century mark. "Thanks, guys – but you shouldn't have."

"Oh, yes we should have. Most definitely." That bit of snark came from Elizabeth, his best friend and all around enabler. El wasn't part of his team – at least here in the office – but she was a familiar face at the headquarters of Burke International, Inc.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	8. Hot For Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High school A/U - Neal and Matthew Keller are high school seniors. Peter Burke's the new teacher. Someone falls in lust.

Matthew Keller leaned over and whispered, “ The new English teacher is seriously kind of hot. I’d tap that in an instant.”

Neal turned around and glared at Keller, whispering. “Shut the fuck up.”

The new English teacher apparently had exceptional hearing. “Mr. Caffrey, is there a problem?”

Neal sat up and tried to appear like a model student. “No, sir. Everything is fine.”

“Good, then please ignore Mr. Keller’s comments and continue to work on your essay.”

Neal felt his cheeks burning and instead of completing this stupid assignment, “Three Things I Want You to Know About Me”, he plotted revenge against his nemesis. 

Matthew Keller had been tormenting him since Kindergarten - stealing his lunch money, stealing his lunch, making him the butt of some really bad jokes - and it had only gotten worse when he came out. The problem was, his high school was small and it was hard to hide.

Thank god for his best friend and partner in crime, Elizabeth. She had punched Keller in the face, not once, not twice, but three times, and as long as Neal was in her company, Keller was nowhere to be found.

Unfortunately, she was taking English Lit, not English Comp for her senior year, and Neal was left to Keller’s no-so-tender mercies.

Neal glanced at the clock - he still had ten minutes to go and he couldn’t think of the third thing he wanted Mr. Burke to know about him. 

The minutes were ticking away and Neal looked over what he’d written: Item One - My father was a cop and he was murdered by his partner; Item Two - My mother is waiting for me to graduate high school before she -----

_No, no, no, no. And no._

He wasn’t going to write that - not if he didn’t want to end up in the tender care of social services until his eighteenth birthday. Neal scribbled over those three paragraphs until the paper was a solid block of blue ink.

Before he could even think of anything else to write, the bell rang.

“Okay, class. Time to turn in your papers.”

Neal didn’t move as the rest of the class emptied out. Keller, of course, took pains to shove at his chair. But he sat there, staring at the failure in front of him. _Great way to start off the year, Caffrey_.

“Are you okay?”

Neal looked up. Mr. Burke was standing in front of him, and the concerned expression was almost too much to bear. He stood up, needing to escape. “Yeah, I’m fine. Here’s your stupid essay.”

Mr. Burke took the paper and glanced at it. “Would you like to redo this and hand it in tomorrow?”

Neal shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mr. Burke gave him a gentle smile. “No, it doesn’t. But you can if you want.”

“Okay.” He picked up his backpack and sort of smiled back. “Thanks.” The second bell rang and Neal bolted, not wanting to think about just how right Matthew Keller was.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	9. A Place As Cold As Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter doses Neal with a sex pollen drug that bonds them sexually for life. If they don't have sex at a certain frequency, they'll both die. 
> 
> WARNING - NON-CON/RAPE

“Honey, are you sure you want to do this?” Elizabeth rubbed a hand up and down Peter’s forearm.

“Yeah – it’s the only way, El. I can’t take a chance that he’ll run.” Peter sighed. “He runs, everything I’ve worked for comes crashing down.”

Elizabeth knew it was more that. He’d survive the consequences with the FBI, but his heart was breaking at the thought of losing Neal. “It’s a big step – and once you do this, you can’t go back. There are no do-overs.”

Peter nodded. “Are you okay with it? This is as much your decision as it is mine. Like you said – there’s no going back.”

“Would I have suggested it in the first place if I didn’t want this?” She picked up his hand and kissed the wedding band. “You’ve tried reasoning with him, threatening him – Neal’s not going to cave. And he’s not going to give up this score – not now. You have to do this.”

“Whatever happens, El – you know that you always have the first place in my heart. Always.”

“I know, hon. I know.”

She smiled – beautiful, clever, wickedly smart and infinitely loving. Peter thought how lucky he was, how little he deserved her.

The doorbell rang – it was their guest.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal hadn’t been looking forward to this evening, even though he accepted Elizabeth’s invitation. Of late, there had been too many undercurrents between him and Peter, and even to a certain extent, Elizabeth. The comfort between them that had existed since the very beginning was gone and Neal wondered if it would ever come back. And then he told himself that it didn’t matter. Once he got Peter to take his anklet off, he’d be in the wind.

He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be so anxious to leave if Peter hadn’t accused him of orchestrating everything, of stealing the treasure and subjecting him to the humiliation of a lie detector test. Of looking at him with such disgust, such contempt.

But why should he worry if things would ever be right between them? He was leaving and never coming back. Soon enough, Peter and the FBI and the tracker would be nothing more than a bad dream. 

Why did he feel so sick at that thought?

“Tell me about Gary Rydell, Neal. Peter didn’t say much about him, except that he was a world-class fence.”

Neal choked a little on his osso bucco. “Fencer – world class fencer, El.”

“Yes – tell us about how you learned to fence – with swords, that is.” Peter chimed in. There was just a touch of censure in the comment that set Neal’s back up.

“What, Peter – you don’t think I am? You think that’s a lie?”

“I didn’t say that at all – I am just surprised. Fencing is not a skill one picks up from running with liars and crooks and thieves.” Peter took a sip of his wine and gave Neal a challenging look.

“Peter!” Both men ignored Elizabeth’s note of outrage.

Neal knew he was being goaded into an answer, but he couldn’t let the insult pass unchallenged. “I was on the fencing team in high school.”

“You didn’t graduate high school – or so you’ve said. Was that another lie?”

“No, Peter it wasn’t. I didn’t graduate – but I did go. And I was the team captain. We medaled at the national championship.” Neal cursed under his breath, his aggravation made him reckless. Peter was going take that information and run with it. Damn.

“I’d think that fencing would be something you’d need to practice to keep your skills up.” Elizabeth was trying hard to maintain some level of civility between them.

Neal looked at her, grateful for her intervention. “Yes, and no. I’m no longer fit for competition, but I can still handle myself on a piste. It’s muscle memory – my hand-eye coordination takes over without conscious effort.”

“Like skeet shooting?” Peter interrupted with a snide comment.

Neal turned to him. “Yes, Peter – like skeet shooting. Anything else you’d like to know.” He let his fork drop onto the plate, whatever appetite he had was gone.

Elizabeth signaled something to Peter, because they both got up and went into the kitchen. They were whisper-arguing. Neal wondered if they regretted the makeover – since the new opened plan deprived them of privacy. Neal tried not to listen in – even though they were clearly talking about him. He smiled, though. Elizabeth was telling Peter to behave himself. Neal had often thought of Peter Burke as the toppiest top this side of Mount Everest, but looking at the dynamics between them, Elizabeth Burke certainly had one over on her husband. 

Peter came back, if not all smiles, a least the aura of hostility was dialed back.

“Everything okay?”

Peter nodded. “Just fine. How about coffee and dessert on the patio? It would be a shame to waste such a lovely evening.” 

Neal got up and went to help Elizabeth, but Peter grabbed his elbow and steered him outside.

“That’s not very gentlemanly – one of use should give Elizabeth a hand.”

“Oh, that’s all right, boys – I’ve got everything under control. You and Peter go outside.” Elizabeth chimed in.

“What are we, eight year olds?” Peter’s complaint was mild, and the love and affection were unmistakable. Neal sighed. This was something he’d never have for himself. Peter pushed him through the door, the palm of his hand like a burning brand between his shoulder blades.

Neal watched as Peter stood in the middle of the small patio, looking up at the evening sky – gold to pink to rose – darkening to black in the east. He turned around and gave him a small smile before looking up again. “Nights like this – I wonder what I’ve done to deserve my life.”

Neal shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t really have an answer for Peter. This was territory they’d been over. “I think you’d say that you worked hard and that you earned it.”

“Yes – and no. Maybe once I’d have believed that, but now – I think there’s more to it than just hard work.”

Neal rocked back on his heels. This was completely unexpected. “Peter! I’m shocked.” 

“Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me.” Peter didn’t turn around. He was still addressing the fluffy pink and gold clouds that were drifting across the summer sky. “Maybe I should believe in luck and good fortune, trust in fate.”

Neal didn’t quite know what to make of this version of Peter Burke. He sounded sincere, but also melancholy, a trifle regretful. “Peter – are you okay? Is everything all right?” 

Peter finally turned around, facing him squarely. “Yeah – everything is fine. But I have to wonder, why do you care?”

“Peter?” Neal swallowed. “Of course I care.”

“Hmmm – I wonder.”

Something was wrong, but Neal didn’t know what to do, to say, so he fell into cliché. “We’re friends, right? Friends care about each other.”

The look Peter gave him made him want to cry. It was so clear. Peter knew what he was planning and Neal was filled with shame. Friends don’t do to each other what he was planning on doing to Peter. 

The tension was almost too much to bear, but thankfully, Elizabeth came out with coffee and dessert. She poured Peter a cup, and then one for Neal. “Light and sweet?” Neal nodded. She didn’t pour one for herself.

“Aren’t you having any?”

She shook her head. “Nah, I’ve been having some trouble falling asleep, so it’s nothing for me – not even tea. But I can still have cake.” She cut each of them slices from the double fudge layer cake Neal brought from the bakery.

As he watched her enjoy the dessert, Neal didn’t have the heart to tell her that chocolate had caffeine in it too. He took a forkful of his own – it was good, not too sweet, but rich and decadent. He’d have to make sure that the bakery wouldn’t suffer after they’d… No, this wasn’t the time to think about that. Neal took a sip of his coffee. It tasted a little off – slightly burned, maybe. 

He noticed that Peter made a slight face too after drinking. They caught each other’s eyes and shared a conspiratorial smile. However bad the coffee was, it wasn’t as bad as what came out of the communal pot at the office. Neal sighed to himself and then stopped. No, he wasn’t going to get nostalgic over bad coffee and a bureaucratic lifestyle. 

“You okay?” He looked up from the coffee cup. Peter was staring at him with a look of concern.

“Yeah – I’m fine.” Except that at that instant, he wasn’t. Neal’s palms were clammy with sweat – in fact, his whole body was sweaty, his heart racing and he was sexually aroused. He dropped the cup and it landed on the table, spilling into the cake. He stared at it and at his shaking hands. “No, maybe I’m not okay.” His tongue was thick in his mouth and he tried to stand.

Peter put an arm around him. “I’ve got you.” Neal leaning into his strength, it felt so good. He looked up; Peter’s face was inches from his. He wanted to let all his inhibitions fall away; he wanted to do something he’d longed to do for years. He reached up – or he tried to, but his arms were lead weights.

“Peter – what’s happenin’ to me?” His voice began to slur – his tongue felt thick.

“You’ll be fine – just hold on to me.”

Neal let Peter guide him – not upstairs to the guest bedroom, but towards the basement. “Wha – what’s going on? Where we goin’? ” His cock was aching so much that it was hard to stay upright.

“Do you trust me, Neal?” 

He nodded – he always trusted Peter. Peter would never let him down, would never do anything bad to him. Yeah – he’d throw his ass in prison, but he’d make sure he’d be all right. Peter loved him. He loved Peter. In his lust-clouded brain, it was one perfect, golden circle. 

His head swiveled around, looking for Elizabeth. He saw her standing by the opened basement door. She had a sweet and worried smile on her face.

“Don’t be sad, ‘lizabet, I’ll be fine. Peter here ‘ill make sure of that.” He turned to Peter, looking up. “Won’t cha? You’ll take care of me – right?”

Peter held him close, which felt sooooo good. “Yes, I’ll take very good care of you.”

Neal didn’t remember anything after that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter carried Neal’s limp body down to the basement apartment he had set up over the course of the last few months. They were almost at the point of no return – almost, but not quite. The drug he put into the coffee – into his and Neal’s – wouldn’t work until they completed the exchange. His DNA in Neal’s body, Neal’s into his.

The government scientists, when the first invented it, called the drug the “vampire maker.” If the DNA exchange was blood-bound, each taker crave each other’s blood for the rest of their lives. Except that it was quickly discovered that the blood didn’t need to be fresh, it didn’t need to be in quantity, and as long as there was the minutest levels of DNA in the transfer, the craving and the side-effects were minimal. 

But when the DNA exchange was through sex …

The need for continuous exchange was absolute and irreversible. No more that seventy-two hours could pass between exchanges or both takers would die an agonizing death. And when one of the pair died, the other did as well.

Peter put Neal down on the bed in the center of the small room. He had prepared this place with care. A good mattress, high-quality bedding, hard wood floor and antique rugs, tables and chairs and bookcases filled with a variety of texts, and of course, a small art studio outfitted with everything an artist of Neal’s range and skill could desire.

Nothing about the room spoke “basement” – the walls and ceiling were finished, a skylight and a window, each cleverly lit to mimic the passage of day and night. A well-appointed home, completely soundproofed and locked. 

"Peter – please. You don't want to do this." Neal was desperate, tears rolling down his face.

"You've left me no choice. You're going to run – disappear. I can't allow that."

"No – I promise – I'm not running."

"You have the art. I know you do. I know that you and Moz have been working every angle to get it out, to get yourselves out."

"You're wrong – Peter, you're wrong. I'm not going to run. We're a team – right?"

"Hmmm – maybe not now – but in three years – you'll vanish and I couldn't stop you."

"Three years is a long time. A lot can happen. Don't do this."

Peter looked at Neal – so beautiful, so distraught. Spread eagled and chained to the bed, his cock a hard massive spike. He tried to feel some shame for what he was about to do, but his need to have Neal close, always, was finally overriding his moral compass.

"Once the drug is keyed to our DNA, there's no turning back, Neal."

"Peter – wait. What can I do to make you stop?"

Peter sat down next to Neal, tenderly wiping the sweat and tears away, brushing his hair off of his forehead. "Nothing." There was a little bit of regret in his voice. Just a little.

Neal started to struggle again, and Peter grasped the back of his skull, taking a fist full of hair. "Fighting will only make it worse for you." He leaned forward, to kiss Neal.

"No, don't. Please."

Peter stopped, just for a moment. Taking this step would irrevocably change everything. He'd never destroyed anyone's free will before. It was a heady sensation.

He kissed Neal – or tried to. Neal kept his lips tightly closed, but Peter wasn't going to let that stop him. He bit Neal's lower lip, and his mouth opened instinctively. Blood was as good as saliva, and Peter sucked on in, swallowing deeply.

Maybe the pain was a trigger, but Neal finally gave in, and began to kiss Peter back. Peter didn't know if it was the drug or true desire, but at this point, he didn't care. He licked the inside of Neal's mouth, letting his own saliva seep into the delicate pores, letting his altered DNA invade Neal's system, as he had taken Neal's.

He pulled back, gasping for breath. Neal was crying.

"Why did you do this, Peter? If you asked, I would have given you everything."

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	10. A Price Too High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter, Elizabeth and Neal, post Peter's arrest and release

“Hon?” Elizabeth had rolled over and felt the chilled emptiness on the other side of the bed. 

Every night, for six long weeks, she had reached out for Peter, only to find nothing. Now that he was home and safe and free, she hadn’t expected to keep waking to an empty bed.

Sometimes she’d see him sitting in the chair by the window, just looking out the window. Other times, most other times, he’d be somewhere else in the house. Downstairs, on the couch with Satchmo and the television turned on with the sound off; or more often, upstairs in the loft, running on the treadmill or trying to exhaust himself with the weight machine.

Tonight was one of those nights. It was three AM and the only sound, other than her heartbeat, was the steady whoosh and clank of weights as they were raised and lowered. El laid there listening and watching the clock tick away, lonely and sad and unable to fall back to sleep.

Dawn didn't wait all that long to make its appearance. It was early July and Elizabeth was ready to toss back the covers and get up. She was tired, but lying in bed was pointless. Peter had showered and when he came back into their bedroom to dress, she watched him silently, unable to find the words to give him some comfort, to bring him back to their bed.

He kissed her cheek, whispered, "I love you, honey" and left. 

The tears fell silently as she grieved for her husband and everything that they were losing, for everything they had lost.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was surprised that he actually liked David Siegel. Moz had regaled him with all sorts of nightmares, that his new handler would have him filing endless amounts of paperwork, running him into the ground over the least infraction, locking him in a dank basement office or in a car with the windows closed and no air conditioning.

Siegel did nothing of the sort. He was interested in closing cases and using all the tools available to him. Neal was simply one of those tools.

They settled into an easy rapport, nothing like what he once had with Peter, but it was pleasant none the less. And while the man was sharp, a rising star out of the Chicago field office, he was fairly easy to work around. In the privacy of his thoughts, Neal thought of him as Harvard-Lite. A good agent, but one who’d never quite measure up to rest of the team. 

The shit he pulled on Siegel would have never gotten by Diana or Clinton.

All for the greater good. Hagen was after him to pull another job. Of course that son of a bitch was threatening to send the video of him breaking into the vault and stealing the Welsh gold to the FBI if he didn't agree. Neal wondered what would happen if he called Hagen's bluff - the prosecutor on Peter’s case would get suspended and the DOJ would take a closer look at James’ “confession” and maybe Peter would end up back inside, with a capital murder charge pending. 

And nothing was worth that. So he played along with Hagen, played Hagen and bided his time. The Dutchman wasn’t superhuman, he wasn’t better than Neal Caffrey. No one was. No one except Peter Burke.

He sat at his desk, sorted through a few mortgage fraud files and tried to look busy. It worked.

“No need to impress me today.” Siegel was standing in front of his desk, a thin smile on his lips.

“I’ve got to earn my seven hundred a month somehow.”

“Oh, you’ve earned it, and then some. It’s after five. Go home, Caffrey. Be back bright and early tomorrow.”

Peter was certainly looking out for him. His new handler was a decent man who treated him with respect. Neal supposed he couldn't ask for more.

Except wanting more than what he was given was an intrinsic part of his nature. He wanted Peter back. He wanted his friend back and he didn't give a damn about perspective. 

But as Peter said, he was a criminal. Neal hadn’t disagreed. Thinking about those words, he was reminded of another conversation not so terribly long ago. It was well past midnight, there was a thunderstorm in the distance, and the church bells were tolling. The memory was so vivid, Neal could even feel the warmth of the sand beneath his feet and the cool spray of the Atlantic surf on his bare skin. 

_“You’re an FBI agent, I’m a con man, there’s only a few ways this could have ended.”_

It hadn’t ended the way he thought it would - him living a life of wary luxury, always watching over his shoulder, waiting for a man with a badge and a gun to take him away. Peter found him like he always did, he found him and moved heaven and earth to bring him home and keep him safe.

The man who showed up at his apartment that night a few weeks ago, so tense and so angry, was not the same man who wrapped his arms around him and told him that he missed him so much. Of course he wasn’t. That version of Peter Burke hadn’t nearly lost his job because of Neal; he hadn’t suffered through Neal’s version of a teenaged snit when things didn’t go his way. That version of Peter Burke hadn’t spent six weeks in prison, waiting to hear if he was going to face the death penalty for shooting a United States Senator.

Neal tried to console himself. They’d been through rough patches before, hadn’t they? But this didn’t feel like those other times. Maybe because he always figured that he’d be the one to leave. This separation felt permanent, that forever sort of feeling he got when he went to the cemetery and put flowers on Ellen’s grave, on Kate’s grave.

Peter was leaving New York. Despite all the dents and dings on his record, the higher-ups in D.C. recognized his worth and were going to move him up the ladder. The ASAC slot was a stepping stone to greater things. Neal had to laugh at the thought of Peter Burke, Assistant Director of the FBI, and the laughter was as bitter as gall.

Neal didn’t want to be bitter. He didn’t want to count costs and tally up what was owned to him, what was owed by him, but he couldn’t help but do just that. 

His bastard of a father might have cut and run like the murderous coward he was, but he was still his father. What Neal did to save Peter, cost him the last sliver of hope that he could find James, he could get him to come back and tell the truth. To be a better man than he had been, to be the father Neal wanted.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic, that he sacrificed his real father to save the Peter, who’d been a far truer father to him. And Peter was leaving.

Not immediately, but eventually. Soon enough, and maybe even before his parole was finished. It was a small sop that his future was no longer tied to Peter’s. He wouldn’t head back inside just because Peter was heading out of New York and onto better things.

Neal tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. People left all the time. He could go down the list of everyone who mattered to him and there was no one who he could count on to stand by him, regardless.

Not even Moz. He had his own dreams and his own agendas. He’d been in the wind from the moment of his arrest all those years ago. He would have left with the treasure if Keller hadn’t taken Elizabeth. No, Neal couldn’t, wouldn’t count on Moz. He knew Moz loved him, but his presence in Neal’s life was never a given.

Neal picked up his hat, nodded to Siegel and left. He didn’t bother looking up at Peter’s office.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Hon?”

“Hmmm?” Peter looked up from the report he was reading - a staffing analysis that made the legal notices in the local paper seem exciting.

“You haven’t eaten anything. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’ve had plenty.” He pushed back from the table and patted his stomach

“I have eyes in my head, Peter Burke, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pretend that I was blind or stupid.” Elizabeth sounded furious and he couldn’t understand why.

“El?”

“I can see that you haven’t even picked up that goddamned fork.” She reached over and did just that, stabbing it into the slab of meatloaf on his plate. 

Peter looked at his plate and blinked. El was right - he hadn’t touched it. “Sorry - I just needed …”

“To finish the report, I know.” Now she just sounded tired. “You need to eat, too.”

“I eat - plenty.”

El looked like she was gearing up for an argument, but instead just sighed. “Here, let me take this away. What about some dessert? I have fresh made pie and ice cream.”

“Really? You’ll really let me have dessert even though I haven’t eaten my supper?” Peter tried for his best naughty-boy look.

“For you, anything.” She picked up his plate and kissed him as she went into the kitchen. “Do you want vanilla or caramel ice cream with your pie?”

Neither really appealed, strangely enough. “How about having it in a little bit? I need to finish this report, okay?”

El didn’t say anything, she just gave him a sad look. Peter didn’t know what to do to make that go away.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	11. Slumming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hedge fund manager, Neal Caffrey, is late for an appointment with Vincent Adler. He's trying to get up a narrow lane at Adler's South Hampton home when he finds the way blocked by a stalled out truck and the truck's driver, Peter Burke, a stone mason hired to work on Adler's estate.

The car pulled up the driveway and came to a smooth stop, about a quarter-mile too soon. Neal rolled down the partition, asking “Moz, what’s the problem?”

“There’s a … vehicle blocking the way, sir.” Always a bit of a sting with that word. “Doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere soon.”

Neal grimaced. He needed to be on time for this appointment. He might be a master of the universe, but masters still had to bow to the gods, and Vincent Adler hated it when anyone was late. He looked at his watch, a wafer-thin Vacheron that was too beautiful to keep perfect time. Neal figured he had about ten minutes, just enough time to walk to the front door, but damn it, he wanted to make an impression. That’s what the Bentley was for. 

But what was the point of making an impression if it was going to be a bad one? 

“I guess I’ll just have to hoof it, Moz.”

His driver-cum-valet-cum-best friend got out and opened the door for him. Neal donned his sunglasses, grabbed his briefcase and got out of the car. He supposed it could have been worse. It could be raining, or a hundred degrees.

“Thanks.”

Moz nodded and Neal started up the driveway, skirting carefully around the stalled truck and at the same time trying not to get caught in the hedges that lined the narrow driveway. There was a man working on it, sweaty and shirtless as he bent over the hood. Neal could only see his back; it was strong, with rippling muscles. But those muscles weren’t courtesy of a gym – they were clearly built by constant hard work. He paused for a few seconds to admire the strength there, and licked his lips, idly wondering what that skin would taste like.

The man looked up, concern sliding into contempt and anger as he noticed Neal’s covetous gaze. But he didn’t say a word. Neal did, calling out to his friend, “Moz – can you give this guy a hand?”

“Who do you think I am? A mechanic?” 

“Moz – ”

“Okay, okay.” Neal didn’t turn back to see if Moz was actually going to assist, but he heard the Bentley’s door open and shut as he walked away.

It took all of ten minutes to make it to the front door of Vincent’s house. Neal had been to a handful of parties at the Locust Valley estate – a sprawling Beaux Arts mansion built during the Gilded Age. Adler’s staff was exceptionally well trained. The door opened as he approached, the butler recognized him. “Mr. Adler is waiting for you on in the library.”

_Damn._ Neal had hoped for a few minutes grace, maybe a chance to freshen up before going into the lion’s den. The day was warm and the walk left him a trifle perspired. It would have been the height of bad manners and certainly have left a poor impression if he opened his jacket and sniffed his pits.

 

He followed the butler into the library, a vast room that served as the personal headquarters for Adler & Co. Books and art dominated the dark wood walls, which were probably ripped out of some German _schloss_ a century ago. Glossy high tech gadgetry wasn’t Adler’s style – at least here, though Neal had been in the man’s corporate HG, which was fitted out with all the usual trappings of a modern business tycoon - a technocrat’s dream, to be honest.

Neal knew that this place was where the real Vincent Adler existed – the hedge fund magnate, the god of Wall Street, the billionaire philanthropist. In a way, Neal was looking for a bit of that philanthropy. His own small fund, Halden Capital Partners, had maxed out its investments and the rate of growth was slowing. He needed seeds for a new fund and wanted to start with a single large investor – namely Vincent Adler.

This was going to be his one chance to make his pitch, and if he got it wrong, he’d never be back. Adler had made some small investments with him over the past few months, amount that barely constituted a pocket change to a man who made Michael Bloomberg look like a panhandler. But the fees those investments generated helped fund the purchase of Neal’s new Bentley. His hope was that not only would Adler make the investment, he’d buy HCP outright and let Neal continue to run it.

It was a longshot, Neal knew, but he had to try.

“Neal, good to see you.” Vincent was all smiles and genial welcome, but still every inch a predator. The hair on the nape of Neal’s neck stood up as he shook the man’s almost unnaturally cool hand. “You look a little warm – everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Adler.” Neal didn’t think the man wanted to hear about the stalled truck in his driveway.

“Please – I’ve asked you before – call me Vincent.” They chatted for a few moments, only to be interrupted when the side door opened. “Ah, the refreshments. You remember my assistant, Kate?”

The woman – barely more than a girl – gave him a somewhat mysterious smile and batted her almost unnaturally large blue eyes at him. Neal supposed she was flirting with him with her boss’ approval. He gave her a smile and thanked her for the glass of iced tea before fixing his attention back on Vincent. There was a brief flare of approval and Neal let his smile become just a bit seductive.

He understood the game; he didn’t need the rules printed out for him.

“That will be all, Kate.”

The girl nodded and backed out of the room.

Neal took a small sip and placed the glass down. “I realize how valuable your time is, Vincent. And I appreciate that you’ve made room for me on your schedule.” Neal began his pitch, but Adler raised a hand and cut him off.

“I’ve read your prospectus. It’s impressive.”

“Thank you.” Neal knew that Adler wasn’t flattering him. The other shoe was about to drop.

“Even after I peeled away all of the fluff – there’s solid fundamentals there.”

“HCP could make you a lot of money.”

“I have a lot of money.” Vincent gestured around him. “More money than I could spend in three lifetimes. I don’t know if I really need more money.”

A cold knot formed in the pit of his stomach. An altruistic Vincent Adler was not a scenario he had planned for. So Neal punted. “But you are a philanthropist. The profits generated from your investment could be designated exclusively for the support of a new endowment. Maybe a chair or school in your name?”

“Hmmm.” Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and Neal wondered if he just tanked.

“Your alma mater is Harvard …”

“And I always thought that business school was a waste of time.”

“But your degree was in intellectual and art history.”

At that, Adler leaned back, visibly impressed. “Good work, Neal. Good work.”

Neal warmed to his subject, and his normally high self-confidence rose to stratospheric levels. They migrated to Alder’s desk, and he pulled up the numbers and potential earning. Vincent leaned over, his face a few inches from his own, a hand resting on his shoulder.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	12. Something's Bothering Neal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's bothering Neal, and Peter wants to get to the bottom of it.

Peter cast a worried look over at his partner, his friend, and yes – his lover. Neal had been uncharacteristically subdued the past few days. The warning signs were all there; the wattage on the conman’s grin was brighter than usual – a smile Peter never liked to see. The polished surfaces seemed harder, too - more reflective than they had been in a long time. He surreptitiously checked his watch, a quarter to twelve – not unreasonably early to get lunch. Or sneak away for a nooner. Or take some time to find out what was bothering Neal, because an unhappy Neal often lead to catastrophe.

“Come on, get your hat. I’m hungry.”

Neal looked up from the file in his hands. “What?”

“Let’s get some lunch.” Peter got up and tugged Neal to his feet.

“Lunch?” Neal grinned.

“Or something…” Peter let the words remain unspoken. Neal _sans_ anklet was still likely to lead to trouble (but thankfully no longer jail time), so it was still best to maintain a modicum of discretion. They didn’t talk about their relationship inside the office.

Neal donned his hat, Peter, his jacket and the casually made their way down to the street. Peter just said “room service?” and started walking in the direction of a small boutique hotel. Neal followed, with a bit more spring in his step than he had over the last few days.

The reception staff knew them quite well, they were pleasant and discreet. Cash and a key card were exchanged with nothing more than “Enjoy your afternoon.”

Their room was dark and quiet, the bed large and comfortable. Neal dropped his hat on the desk, and hung up his jacket; Peter stood there watching him. Neal was surprised that his lover had made no move to get undressed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was going to ask you that.” Peter stepped in close and cupped the back of Neal’s head, tilting it up. “You’ve seemed upset the past few days.” He kissed Neal, sweetly, gently, as much to savor his taste as to give some ease to whatever troubled him.

Neal reached his hand up and covered Peter's mouth with his fingers, an odd expression on his face - confusion mixed with a little bit of doubt and fear. "Not upset, Peter, just preoccupied." He backed away and Peter thought he noticed another expression in his eyes - guilt?  
   
Peter blinked. There was usually only one reason for Neal to have this particular variety of shame on his face, and Peter could feel the color rising in his cheeks as he recognized it. "What have you done now, Neal?" he asked, his tone more stern than he meant to be. "Are you in trouble again?"  
   
"You could say that," Neal replied, suddenly unable to meet Peter's eye.  
   
"Not another bespoke forgery like with that Haustenberg?"  
   
"No, Peter. Come on."  
   
"But something's up with you, I can feel it." Peter took a small step forward, his hand extended.  
   
Neal was evasive, his posture suddenly too rigid. "It's personal." He picked up his hat again and started fussing with it, turning it in his hands - a barrier between them.  
   
"What could be so personal that you wouldn't tell me?"  
   
"I don't want you to trouble yourself."  
   
"What? I like to trouble myself. I'm all about the trouble. They call me Mr. Trouble." Peter didn't often try to be cute to diffuse a situation, but Neal's manner was concerning him.  
   
Neal's mouth opened and closed several times, but he just sighed and said nothing.  
   
"Neal," Peter began, his voice patient and kind, trying a new tack, "Whatever it is -"  
   
"I'm pregnant!" Neal said over him, and sat heavily on the bed, his head in his hands.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	13. Someone Somewhere is Holding On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the Rocker El 'verse, [Leaving Me In Silence](https://elrhiarhodan.dreamwidth.org/187524.html), where El comes to terms with Peter and his new life.

Elizabeth got of the cab and didn’t even think about going up to her hotel room. She needed a drink. Not a girly glass of wine, either. A few doors down from the Aurora Hotel was a bar - a joint. Cool and dark with decor that hadn’t been updated since Carter had been in the White House. Just what she wanted. Someplace anonymous, someplace where no one would look at her twice.

She went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. The bartender gave her a look - just the kind she didn’t want. From the tips of her ballet flats to the top of her styled hair and then back down to linger on her breasts covered by that damn fuzzy pink sweater. It wasn’t lascivious and the man was old enough to be her grandfather, but it made her uncomfortable.

“Sure this is the place you want to be, miss?”

“Yeah - I’m sure. Make it a double.”

“It’s you’re liver, missy.” Concern changed to contempt. 

El didn’t care. She took her drink to a corner table, ditched the fuzzy pink sweater and sat down. The G&T was strong enough to bring on a coughing fit and tears to her eyes. She forced herself to swallow and take another sip.

Leaning back in the chair, the room took on a hazy glow, but she wondered if there was enough gin in the world to drown her embarrassment. And yet, as embarrassed as she was, and well on the road to inebriation, she couldn’t bury her own sense of fairness. It was unreasonable to think that Peter had been waiting for her. Waiting for what? A few months break between touring and a new album? 

He had made it clear - he wanted a wife, not an occasional bed partner. _Or should she now say, spouse?_

Of course Peter had moved on, she certainly had. She wasn’t promiscuous, but in the decade since their separation and divorce, there had been several well publicized relationships - an award-winning actor, a certain celebrity chef who had named his then-latest restaurant after her. The only other steady relationship she had –was the least publicized one – was a very ill-advised liaison with a French fashion designer during a six-month break in her tour schedule. 

It didn’t take much and it hadn’t taken long. Within a month after their first date, Anton had turned her into an anorexic pill-popping wreck. He said that he loved her, but he didn’t particularly like her curves. She needed to be thinner, narrower, less earthy, more androgynous, less womanly. It was bad enough that she wasn’t tall and that her cheeks were round, but she really needed to do something about those breasts and thighs and did she really want to have the salmon when a salad was so much better for her waistline? 

Moz had saved her. 

A few weeks before they were going back on tour, Moz stopped by to go over contracts. He took one look at her and asked her what she was taking. She denied his accusations, but he just stood there, looking at her with those gentle, paranoid eyes and told her that if she didn’t tell him the truth, he was going to tear the room apart, and if that didn’t work, he’d stay glued to her side until she either gave him the drugs or told him what was wrong with her.

It was probably the darkest moment of her life since the divorce. She collapsed on the floor of her hotel suite and started sobbing, spewing out the whole sordid story. How Anton was encouraging her to throw up after each meal, how he regimented her life, how he tried to control each moment of her existence. 

Elizabeth emptied her handbag and a half a dozen bottles of pills rolled out. Amphetamines to increase her metabolism - like what the studios had done to Judy Garland. Downers so she could sleep. Purgatives and laxatives to ensure that none of the calories she consumed were added to her body. She didn’t want to take them, but Anton had her so messed up, she didn’t know what to do. 

It took less than a day for Moz to fix things. Before dawn, Anton was served with arrest warrants for everything from tax-fraud to statutory rape. The man was suddenly far too wrapped up in his legal problems to give a damn that El wore a size six instead of a size zero.

Moz quietly checked her into a very private and very expensive clinic on Lake Geneva, she cleansed and detoxed and somehow found her self-esteem again. No one but Moz ever knew what happened to her. 

_Moz_.

El took another, smaller sip the G&T and shook her head. What would she do without him? She could hardly remember a time that he hadn’t been taking care of her.

Sometime after the start of her second major tour, about a month after her divorce was final, this strange little man showed up during a rehearsal session. Her then-manager told the studio security to usher him out while he ran for the back door, but Moz wasn’t a man to be easily denied. He waited hours for her and without saying a word, he gave her an envelope containing a CD and a printout of a financial report. There was a yellow sticky note that just said “Ask your ex to take a look at this.”

She tried to make sense of the information. It was financial reports, but she didn’t know what she was looking at. A few frustrating days later, she broke down and called Peter, who said he was happy to give her whatever help she needed. She sent the package to him and when they met for lunch a week later, she was stunned to find out that her manager was robbing her blind. 

Peter met with her manager, played the heavy and got most of her money back, and more importantly, got her out of her contract. In a fit of gratitude and utter stupidity, El offered to pay Peter alimony. He refused to talk to her for a year.

Moz smoothly stepped into her manager’s shoes. He earned his fifteen percent plus expenses, and in addition to all of the work he did, he taught her how to read a balance sheet, an earnings statement, to track expenses and make sure no one was cheating her. When she asked him why he was putting so much effort into teaching her how to do his job, Moz pulled of his glasses, blinked owlishly at her, and said “Wise men learn by other men’s mistakes, fools learn by their own.”

El wasn’t quite sure what Moz meant by that - he was always tossing off quotations and epigrams at her. But knowing how to double check her accounts made her trust Moz more than she ever trusted anyone except Peter.

One night - or make that early morning - after she’d performed in front of a sell-out in Germany, when she was too wired to sleep and too tired for anything, Moz sat with her. She talked about her years as a conservatory student at Julliard, about trying to make a name as classical guitarist, but really wanting to be a rock n’ roll goddess. She sipped the green tea with honey (to smooth out her vocal chords) and told Moz about performing in underground clubs with hardcore bands, about the first time she took the stage at CBGB, not knowing that executives from a major label were in the audience, scouting for new acts.

In turn, Moz told her a little about himself, growing up in a group home in Detroit, scamming the mob, moving to New York, making it as a small time grifter, always running under the radar. He told her about losing the biggest score of his life, of his failure to keep his partner out of jail, and the decision to go mostly legit.

“Mostly, Moz?”

“Yeah, mostly. I wouldn’t cheat or steal from you…”

“But there’s no reason not to play the game with others?” El had toasted him with the mostly empty mug of tea.

“That’s a way to put it.”

“But why not me?”

“Why not - not you?”

“Okay - let me ask the question I should have asked at the start. Why did you dig up the information about my old manager, Walter Haskley?”

“Serendipity, my dear Elizabeth.” Moz toasted her back with his mug. “Haskley was an old business acquaintance. We ran a few jobs together. He cheated me. I knew how he operated and it was just a matter of time before I got my own back.” Moz gave her a rather enigmatic smile. “Besides, you are too talented to be another one of that Haskley’s victims.”

“So it wasn’t my good looks and charm that tempted you to rescue me.” She batted here eyelashes at Moz over the rim of her mug, but Moz wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Moz?”

“Well, maybe.” To her delight, he blushed. “So I have a thing for ladies in leather pants. Sue me.”

That evening had set a routine - Moz was her guardian angel during the tour. Performing left her wired, jumpy, anxious. She understood why so many musicians fell into drugs and alcohol and destructive behavior after a concert. Having Moz to help her come down from the performance high saved her sanity, if not her life.

But until the episode with Anton, he would just disappear after the tour was over, occasionally checking in, but otherwise conspicuous by his absence from her life. After Anton, she understood that Moz was always looking out for her. 

When she told Moz that she wasn’t re-signing with her label, he didn’t get angry or try to talk her out of her plans. He simply pulled off his glasses and wiped them with the tail of his shirt. They’d been together long enough that El knew that this meant he was upset.

“You’re going to still be my friend, right?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Moz, come on. Just because I’m not touring anymore doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Of course we’re friends. You’re just not going to need me anymore.” There was a wealth of hurt in Mozzie’s voice.

“Oh, Moz. I’ll always need you - more than you know. I always do - on tour, or off. You and I - we’re a team. 

He gave her a look. “You want to get back with The Suit.” That was his nickname for her ex - he called everyone associated with government or corporate bureaucracy “a suit.” But Peter was “The Suit” in capital letters. “You’re not going to need me hanging around.”

“Moz - don’t say that. And I don’t know what I want from Peter. The thought of reconciliation has been going through my mind. I’ve never stopped caring for him, but to be honest, I don’t know if I could ever be the wife he wants.”

“You mean a subservient little woman, who only exists to serve his needs?” 

“No Moz - not in the least. Peter wanted a partner, someone equally invested in a marriage. Someone who would be that first, before anything.”

El remembered Moz’s skepticism. “If Peter was so invested …” He made air quotes around that last word. “Then why didn’t he quit _his_ job? Why did he want a divorce?”

“Oh, Moz …” It was too difficult to explain. “Have you ever been in love?”

He looked at the floor. “Well, yes. Of course I have.”

“And have you ever done stupid things when you’re in love?”

He didn’t answer her.

“Peter and I … I don’t know if we would have lasted much longer than we had. Maybe if we had met a year or two later, when things were different, expectations were different. He didn’t sign up to be Mr. Lizzie Bordyn.”

“And now that Lizzie Bordyn is no longer in the way?” 

“Maybe we have a chance. Maybe.”

A blinding stream of late afternoon sunlight shook her out of her reverie. Then a shadow, short and round, blocked the light

“This isn’t really a good place for you to hang out in, El.”

It was Moz, standing in front of her like a pocket-sized version of the Archangel Michael.

“How did you find me?” She couldn’t imagine that he picked this joint at random.

He pulled out his iPhone, it displayed a map and a little pulsing blue dot. “Technology is a wonderful thing. I’ve been using the GPS in your phone to keep track of you for a while now.”

“That’s surprising, coming from you.” 

“Yeah, well – you’re too important to stand on principles.”

El looked up at Moz. He was still looming over her, as much as a bald, five-foot-six man could loom. She smiled. “Thank you.”

He gestured with his head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“They make a mean G&T.”

“El, you’ve have enough.”

She sighed. “I know – one was more than enough.” She stood up, took her bag and thought about leaving the pink sweater behind. Moz gave her a rather pointed look and she took it. It wasn’t the sweater’s fault her life seemed so suddenly fucked up. “Where to, sensei?”

“Ah, grasshopper is finally learning.”

They walked about a half a block, back to her hotel, when El stopped in her tracks. “I’m hungry.” She didn’t care that she sounded like a petulant five year old.

“We can fix that.” Moz was never fazed. “What do you want?”

“Pizza. A real New York pizza with lots of sauce and extra cheese. Mushrooms, onions, sausage, meatballs – the fucking works. I want a pie all for myself. I want to eat until I’m sick.”

“El, you’re not going to do that.” Damn Mozzie for being the voice of reason.

“I don’t have to worry about fitting into those stupid leather pants anymore.”

“No, you don’t. But don’t you want to fit into your wedding gown?”

The afternoon sun was giving her a headache. Or maybe it was the G&T. “What are you talking about?”

“Aren’t you and The Suit going to get remarried? Make babies and live happily ever after in suburban bliss?”

“Ah, Moz.” She leaned over and kissed his bald pate. “That’s a story that deserves not only pizza, but cold beer and maybe a joint.”

Moz peered up at her and sighed. “Pizza, yes. Beer, maybe. The joint, don’t think so.”

El chuckled. “I was joking, silly.” She started walking again, feeling a hell of a lot lighter than she had for days. “Come on, I’m starving.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	14. Secrets and Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The original version of If the Soul Doesn't Sing for the artwork created by Kanarek13 for the original White Collar RBB.

“Peter - belief has never been a criteria for membership in the Hierarchy.”

Elizabeth, Bel-Archon of the New York diocese, leaned back in her chair and looked at him over the rim of her teacup. 

Peter sighed. Maybe she didn’t understand. “It’s not just belief, El - it’s faith. I … ” He shook his head. “I don’t have any faith anymore. It is all meaningless, empty.”

“Do you feel like you’re blaspheming?” 

Peter gave his superior a sharp look. Her smile belied the harshness of her words. He answered, knowing that this discussion was off the books. A conversation between friends. “No, I don’t. I’d have to believe to feel like I was a blasphemer, wouldn’t I?”

It wasn’t that Peter didn’t accept the Miracle of the Light. No one except the most hard core fundamentalists believed that Kir-isis was responsible for the sequential rising of the three moons. No, he felt nothing during the performance of the Mysteries. He had no connection to the sacred. He was a fraud.

"And like I said, your beliefs - or the lack thereof - don't disqualify you from your work here."

Peter shook his head. "That doesn't seem right. How can I hold myself out to the faithful as an Archon - Kir-Isis' messenger of the Light if I don't have any connection to the Great Mysteries?"

"When was the last time you took part in the Mysteries?" 

Peter shrugged, but he knew the exact date, down to the position of each moon in the sky. "I am derelict in my duties, El. If the others in the Hierarchy knew …" Peter trailed off, realizing how he was overdramatizing the situation.

"What do you want, Peter?" Trust Elizabeth to get to the heart of the matter. "Do you want to take a leave of absence? Go on sabbatical? Be reassigned?"

Peter leaned back, resting his head against the chair. He stared up at the fresco that decorated his office ceiling. This was something he always took pleasure in - the depiction of the Angels as the guided the moons in their celestial dance. There was one Angel in particular …

"Peter?" The tension in Elizabeth's voice brought him back down to earth.

He shrugged again. "I don't know what I want to do. But I do know that I can and will do nothing until after the Election."

Her change in expression was minute, but Peter understood Elizabeth's relief. "Thank you."

"You always will have my support, you know that. And even if you weren't in the running, I wouldn't leave and allow that bastard, Pratt, to engineer this Election to his satisfaction." 

"I wish …"

"I do, too. But the Law is the law. I could never find any concrete links between those murders and Pratt. He was tried and exonerated. Short of fabricating the evidence, the Temple's Justice was served."

"You'd think that Pratt would have been forced to step down, or reassigned to a less prominent diocese after the trial, but no. He came through smelling like a rose, with even more influence than he had before." Elizabeth was bitter. "Three bodies are found in the garden of his rectory, the bodies of three young men who went missing the year after Pratt was elevated to Bel-Archon and took up residence in that rectory."

"You don't think that failure haunts me? I investigated that case. I was the one who brought it to the Temple Committee. I was the one who pointed them at Pratt, but I could never find the proof that he killed those boys." Peter buried his face in his hands, feeling more impotent than ever. "He walks away, exonerated of all charges and suddenly I'm elevated from a humble Temple Investigator to Archon of the Manhattan diocese? He takes me away from the only thing I believe in and taints me in the same stroke of the pen."

Elizabeth's face crumpled and she reached out to Peter in sympathy. "I know."

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	15. The Pavement Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Kramer had taken Neal, but not to DC. He put him into a prison under a false name, had him locked up in solitary in order to break Neal. Then Kramer died and no one knew where Neal was.

Working Title: The Pavement Cracks

 

**Today**

Peter bit the inside of his cheek in an effort not to snap at the smiling, clueless woman working at the front desk. Morningside Center was one of the best private facilities in the entire city, and he knew, objectively, that Neal was in good hands here. He made sure of it. 

This delay, though, was aggravating and worrisome. He had advised the Center that he’d be taking Neal out for the long holiday weekend; that he’d be picking him up on Friday afternoon at three p.m. Peter had been waiting for an hour – there was no sign of Neal, or anyone who could explain why there was a delay.

He looked at his watch – five more minutes and he was just going to flash his badge and go get Neal himself. Protocol and procedures be damned.

But he didn’t have to. As he looked up, he spotted Neal, escorted by an orderly and Neal’s attending physician.

“Hey, buddy. How are you doing today?”

But Neal didn’t answer. He never did. Nor did his expression change; it was as blank as it was on the day he took him out of that hell hole nearly a year ago. Peter had schooled himself not to expect anything different, but he still believed that one day Neal would break out of this cocoon and become himself again.

Neal’s doctor had a very ambiguous look on his face, and Peter got a small thrill of hope.

“What was the delay about?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Burke. Neal was …”

Peter didn’t let him finish. “He didn’t want to come?” Neal actively resisting anything was progress.

“No, I’m sorry. He had been taken down to the art studio after lunch and was left there by mistake. We couldn’t find him.”

Hope died, and was replaced by anger. “What do you mean, he was just left there?” Peter tried not to shout. 

“Neal was sitting quietly and didn’t get up when the session ended. The teacher locked the door, not realizing he was still there.” Before Peter could lash into him, he continued. “I know it’s inexcusable – but Neal wasn’t hurt and we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Peter had to let the rage drain away. This was the best facility for Neal in his condition. And mistakes did happen. Neal wasn’t hurt or upset, although Peter would have been overjoyed to see even fear on his friend’s face right now, rather than that impenetrable blankness. He nodded at the doctor and went over to Neal. He was standing still, looking into the distance. 

“Ready?” He put a hand on Neal’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Peter’s heart sank, Neal had lost more weight – weight he couldn’t afford to lose – and that once well-muscled shoulder was thin and bony.

Of course Neal didn’t answer, he never did. But he walked with Peter out into the late spring afternoon.

The drive from upper Manhattan to Brooklyn was slow going any Friday during rush hour, that it was the Friday before Memorial Day, made it worse. Peter had once been accustomed to the traffic on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Neal’s new home wasn’t that far from his old one. June’s mansion was just a brief ten block walk from the Morningside Center, but it might have well been a thousand miles away.

Peter tried to keep up a steady stream of conversation, telling Neal about a current case, some of the more amusing anecdotes about El’s clients, but the words dried up. They always did. Neal sat there with his hands folded on his lap and said nothing. He never did. His gaze was straight ahead, and if Peter didn’t see the rise and fall of his chest, he’d have thought Neal was dead.

The silence was unbearable and he turned on the radio. It was set to the local sports radio station, and the vaguely irritating tones of John Sterling filled the car. It was a replay of last night’s game, but Peter didn’t care. It was simply noise to counteract the emptiness.

By the time he pulled into a parking spot on DeKalb, the Yankees had lost the game again. Peter turned the car off and sat there while the engine ticked into silence. It was warm enough to raise a sweat but he made no move to get out. Neal, of course, just sat there – an obedient, lifeless doll. Peter could see the perspiration dotting his forehead, and he figured that Neal would sit here, unmoving until his body urged him to get up.

The doctors were puzzled by his condition. Neal responded to a variety of external stimuli and he was aware of his surroundings. He flinched at sudden loud noises, he moved out of the way of danger, he put on a sweater if he got cold. He groomed himself, dressed himself, toileted. He wasn’t catatonic; he just wouldn’t interact with anyone. If he was a child and had been like this since birth, it would have been easy to call it an autism spectrum disorder. 

But he wasn’t a child, and given the circumstances, the raft of psychiatrists and neurologists who studied and treated Neal concluded that he was suffering from an advanced form of post traumatic stress disorder. Peter didn’t need four years of medical school and a dozen years of training to diagnose that, Neal had spent four years in hell.

It was definitely too warm to sit in the car. Neal pressed a button and the passenger window rolled down, letting in the evening breeze. Peter put the window back up.

“Come on, El’s waiting for us.” He got out of the car, but Neal made no move to leave until Peter opened the passenger door and reached in to unbuckle the seat belt. Neal got out of the car and Peter tucked his arm around him, hoping as always, hoping in vain, that Neal would respond – even if to shrug him off, but he didn’t. He steered Neal towards the house and up the stairs, letting him go only when he had to fish out his keys.

Satchmo barked and wagged and crowded against Neal, all but ignoring Peter. He didn’t mind, Neal didn’t precisely respond to Satch, but he’d sit on the couch with the dog and rest a hand on his head, his thumb – just his thumb – stroking the edge of Satchmo’s ear.

Elizabeth came out of the kitchen, a frazzled look on her face. “Hey, hon.” She greeted Peter with a kiss, and did the same to Neal, calling him “sweetie” instead. Of course, Neal didn’t reply. 

“What’s the matter?”

“The sink’s backed up – I think we’ll need to call a plumber and it’s going to cost a fortune to get one to come during Memorial Day weekend, if one would come at all.”

Peter looked back at Neal, who was as still and unresponsive as a mannequin. “Let me see what’s going on, it’s not like I don’t know my way around basic plumbing.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was struggling. He had been for a long time, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. At some point (he didn’t know how long ago, since time had no meaning to him), his realities fractured.

There was the solitary reality, one of concrete walls and lights that went on and off without his control. That world had little sunlight, but sometimes if he lay on the floor at just the right angle, he could see a patch of blue through the slit in the foot-thick walls. That reality was the one he feared the most. 

There was no one there, it was the life that had been forced on him and he tried not to remember how it came to be. But he understood at a molecular level, that those concrete walls, that empty, lonely place with the doors that never opened, was the true reality.

There was another reality – it was the one he preferred. Mozzie was there to get him into trouble; Diana and Clinton helped him get out of it. June brought him coffee and Danish pastries, and didn’t get too annoyed when he fed little bits of the sweet dough to Bugsy.

And Peter was there, that was the most important part. He was smiling and laughing, always putting an arm around his shoulder or tugging at him. And sometimes he yelled at him, too. But Neal didn’t mind, it meant that Peter cared about him. He knew his name; he knew where to find him. Peter always knew where he was, and he would never let him go, would never let him be locked behind steel doors and concrete walls again. Peter would move heaven and earth to keep him safe, and he did.

In that reality, he was happy. His life had purpose and meaning, and he was as close as possible to being the person he wanted to be. Not the master thief, the world-class forger who could copy any artwork he wanted. Not the social engineer, who’d charm the secrets out of unsuspecting marks and fools.

No – he was a cop. Albeit one without a badge or a gun or the ability to do anything that cops really do (like arrest people). What he could do was help people, save their lives, their livelihoods, make things right.

He was part of something good. He did good. Peter was proud of him and called him his friend. Elizabeth smiled at him, trusted him. Sara came to him too - she didn’t trust him, but she made him laugh, made happy.

Even though this reality wasn’t all sunshine and roses (Kate was killed, Peter once got really, really angry at him), it was a good life. One he never wanted to give up, one he’d hold on to with ever ounce of strength. One he’d kill to keep.

Despite his tenacity, despite these vows, that happy reality was slipping away. No matter how still he held himself, no matter how silent he remained, it was slowing being replaced by this third reality. As much as he feared the one with walls and locked doors, this one was, in its own way, a lot worse.

In this world, he was broken beyond repair. He didn’t know how that happened, or why. All the colors were muted, like a cheap Victorian print. He heard familiar voices, but from long ago and very far away. It was a world populated by strangers. Men and women in white coats that seemed to care about him, but he didn’t know them, he didn’t know how to care back.

Peter was there, but only sometimes. He was always sad or angry. Or both. Neal could hear the impatience in Peter’s voice. It wasn’t directed at him. When Peter talked to him, Neal could hear the worry. It wasn’t masked by the false cheer, and that only make it worse. Neal hated the undercurrents of desolation, but he couldn’t do anything to help Peter.

If he did, he’d lose the other reality. He’d lose his happy Peter; he’d lose his place in the sunlight. As long as he did nothing, Neal could keep the concrete and silence at bay. 

But he couldn’t save the sunlight.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter guided Neal over to the couch and gave him a gentle push. He sat down, hands folding on his lap, eyes staring out into nothingness.

He had to wonder, would this ever stop hurting? The guilt and the shame ate at him, and there were times when he laid in bed, staring up into the dark ceiling and wondered if it would be better to just let Neal be. 

And quickly discarded that notion. Of course it would be better – for him. He wouldn’t have to go through the pain of seeing this shell of a man, ruined and broken. He could live his life and just forget.

_And what about Neal?_ Would it be better for him? To stay in at the Center (because even now, Peter’s mind shied away from calling it a hospital) and just float through life, cared for by people paid to watch over him. Maybe one day he’d get a call and it would be good news. Neal had “woken up” and was asking for him. Or maybe the news would be terrible – Neal had died.

_Finished dying – because this wasn’t a life._

“Hon?” El touched his shoulder and he turned to her. The compassion in her eyes – for Neal, for him, was a balm to his fractured heart.

Peter stripped off his suit jacket and tossed it on the couch. Without a second thought, he shed his holster, dropping it next to the jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He followed El into the kitchen, the clogged sink was a problem he could actually fix.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Satchmo rested his head on Neal’s knee. This was something familiar, beloved. It was part of the sun-filled reality. In his mind, Peter’s dog was warm yellow _cadmium with a touch of titanium white_ , not as bright as the sunshine, but warmer.

Neal reached out to touch Satchmo – just the very edge of a finger, nothing more. Satchmo was the linchpin, he was the same here as he was in the other reality and Neal was afraid that if he took any action, both worlds would break and he’d be back in concrete and steel and no one would ever say his name again.

But Satchmo foiled his careful plans, he wasn’t content with such a nebulous touch. He forced his head under Neal’s hands, he wanted to be petted and he made that known. Neal moved his hands away, one on each side, resting carefully on the couch.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



	16. These Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five (of which only two were written) bad dreams that Neal has.

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**The Great Lion**

_He’s running and all he can hear is the rapid thud of his heart, his panting breath and his feet as they hit the ground. He can feel the earth shake, though, as his pursuer gains on him. The beast’s monstrous paws pound ever closer and no matter how fast he runs, he knows he’s never going to escape._

_So Neal just stops running and all the fear, all the adrenaline that’s been propelling him forward evaporates into the grass and dust of the savannah. He turns around and faces what’s been chasing him. The beast – a lion as magnificent as any creature ever born – stops, too. They are separated by feet, then inches as they circle around each other._

_Neal feels the swish of the tall grass brushing against his thighs, the buzz of insects singing in his ears, but his attention is completely focused on the great lion in front of him. He’s astounded first by its beauty, and then by the intelligence in its great amber eyes. Neal can’t help himself – he reaches out to touch the lion. Its mane is dark – a startling contrast to the golden fur, and he threads his hand into it. It is softer than he imagined, and the great cat seems to like Neal’s touch. He cups one of those silly ears. That such a dangerous animal has ears like a stuffed teddy bear – makes Neal smile. The lion leans into the caress and nearly knocks Neal off his feet._

_In this place of great beauty, great danger, Neal and the lion play – they chase each other in mock hunts – Neal pulls the lion’s tail and the lion swats Neal to the ground, claws sheathed._

_He walks side-by-side with the lion, and Neal is happy – happier than he can ever remember being in his life. All he wants, from this point forward, is to spend the rest of his life with the lion, to hunt with it, to play with it, to be part of its pride. He loves the lion and as he turns to tell the lion how much he loves it, loves him, a shot rings out._

_Neal watches in horror as the lion falls, blood seeping out of a round hole in its skull. The lion is dead, all his joy is gone._

_He hears someone approach. It’s Kate – dressed for safari and carrying a rifle with smoke still pouring out of the barrel. Neal wants to vomit from the stench of the gunpowder._

_“Why? Why did you kill him? Why did you kill Peter?” He can’t breathe from the grief._

_“He would have changed you, Neal. You would have been lost to me forever.”_

_“No – Kate – no – you’re the one who is lost.”_

_The sky turns dark and the winds stir the tall grass and Kate and her rifle begin to fade._

_Neal is left alone on the vast plain, his heart broken for everything that’s just been taken from him._

 

Neal’s restlessness woke Peter. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it was occurring with worrying frequency. He has been spending two or three nights a week at Neal’s Vinegar Hill loft. Usually Elizabeth was with them in the huge bed, except for the nights when she was working out of town. And it was most often on those nights, when it was just the two of them that Neal succumbed to nightmares.

Peter watched Neal - his legs scrabbling under the sheets, head tossing back and forth - and worried. The light from the city across the water illuminated Neal’s face - tears were rolling down his face and Neal let out a very audible whimper, “No, Kate, no,” and Peter’s heart broke. After so long, almost five years now, why was Neal’s subconscious revisiting the specter of that disaster? 

For a long time, Peter had had his own nightmares about what happened to Kate – he’d dream about arriving too late, losing Neal to the fireball, or watching the plane take off, only to erupt in flames. Or he’d dream about poor, doomed Kate and he’d hear Neal’s screams of horror and feel his body wrench, trying to break free. It took a long time for him to be able to get onto an airplane – walk down the jet way corridor and not have a flashback triggered by the smell of jet fuel. 

But time was a great healer, as clichéd as it sounded. The nightmares had stopped by the time that he got Neal’s deal reinstated and him out of prison. Or maybe he had other nightmares to replace that – nightmares of Neal getting a life sentence for trying to escape, of him losing his job.

It was so strange that now, after so long, Neal was having nightmares about Kate – about that last day. 

Peter brushed Neal’s hair away from his sweaty brow and wiped away the tears with his thumb, hoping to gently wake his lover from the bad dream. It worked. Neal opened his eyes and gulped in air. There was a moment when he was unfocused, completely disoriented – the grief in his eyes made Peter want to weep for him.

“Are you okay?”

Neal panted and looked around, as if he was trying to remember where he was. When he looked up, Peter was stunned by the relief on his face. He repeated his question.

Neal nodded. “Yeah – I’m okay. Sorry about that – did I wake you?”

He didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. “No – I was restless and just watching you sleep. Do you want … to talk about it?”

“No – no. Nothing to talk about. Just a crazy dream.” Neal smiled and Peter didn’t believe a word of it.

But when Neal wrapped his arms around Peter and pulled him down, he didn’t resist. Neal kissed him with a strange intensity that Peter couldn’t help responded to. Tongues met and wrestled, and Neal became pliant, supple, submissive. Peter was filled with an almost unquenchable need to dominate, to take control of this and every other moment.

He pulled back. “What do you want?”

Neal looked up, his blue eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. “I want you, I want you to fuck me, I want you to make me over, make me forget everything but you.”

The edges of his vision went black as the blood rushed to his groin. They had joked and teased about his dominant streak, had even begun playing some games to explore it, but in this moment of vulnerability, Peter learned something about both of them: Neal needed him like that. He needed him to keep him real, keep him grounded. And Peter needed Neal just as much; he needed the other man’s passion. Neal’s need to be controlled here, in bed, was not a weakness to be exploited, but a strength to be cultivated.

Neal parted his thighs and canted his hips forward. “Fuck me, Peter – please. I want your cock in me now.” Neal rubbed himself against Peter’s belly – his dick hard and wet. Peter stretched out an arm, reaching for lube and a condom. Neal trapped his arm.

“No – I don’t need more lube. I’m still all slicked up from before.” His plea was breathless.

“I still need protection…” 

Neal held his arm in a steel grip. “No – I trust you. I’ve always trusted you.”

They’ve had this argument before, even after they’d all been tested. It wasn’t that Peter didn’t trust the tests, or trust Neal. It just seemed like such a big step.

“Please, Peter – only you. Only you.”

He nodded and Neal smiled, but Peter was almost frightened by the desperation in his lover’s eyes. He couldn’t understand it, but he could satisfy him.

Peter pulled Neal further beneath him and watched as Neal opened up like a blooming flower at the pressure of his cock. He tried not to plunge in, not to hurt Neal – but it was difficult to hold back, especially when Neal started chanting, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

He sheathed himself in Neal’s body, up to his balls and it felt so damn good – like every time was the first time. Slowly, almost too slowly, he eased out and then back in, finding a rhythm. The blood roared in his ears, but he could hear the change in Neal’s chant. 

“Bite me, Peter. Please, bite me.”

This was something new, and he almost came, just from the thought of marking Neal.

Neal threw his head back, exposing his throat, his neck, and Peter couldn’t resist. He bit down on Neal’s shoulder. Hard.

Neal didn’t scream, he didn’t shout or cry out in pain. He just sighed and orgasmed, spilling onto Peter’s belly. Peter didn’t let go, he shuttled back and forth into Neal’s body, his teeth sunk into Neal’s shoulder until he came too - finally letting go.

Neal was asleep almost before Peter had pulled out of him. He rolled over and nestled against Peter’s chest, quiet and content at last.

But Peter couldn’t sleep, his brain was buzzing with Neal’s nightmare utterance, his odd request and his own reaction. 

The sky began to brighten, and Peter’s dark-adjusted eyes were about to make out the round bruise forming on Neal’s shoulder. The mark of possession shouldn’t have excited him, but he couldn’t stop the stirring in his groin at the sight of it. He rested his chin on Neal’s shoulder, an inch away from the bite mark and Neal moaned a little. Peter pulled back, but Neal turned around in his arms, clinging and needy and happy in his sleep.

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**The Dragon’s Treasure**

_Since he was twelve years old, Neal has dreamed himself inside great works of art. The oldest one, and maybe his favorite, is being the little boy in the red hat in Seurat's “The Bathers.”  That painting is filled with such light, such languid pleasure that he always wakes happy after that dream._  
   
The first night in prison, listening to the banging of the guards' nightsticks against the cell bars, the howls of the other prisoners, the fap-fap-fap of hands against flesh, stirs up nightmares that place him in the Damnation panel from Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, as the poor soul being eaten by the bird-like Prince of Hell.  
   
Tonight's dream; however, is new. He isn’t a figure from the artwork. He’s himself, wandering through the painting’s landscape. And it’s not just any painting - he’s inside Raphael’s St. George and the Dragon. This is, quite ironically, the Raphael that he stole. In this dream, Neal ignores the pious young girl in red and stands in front of the dragon’s cave. The dragon from the painting was little more than a large, coiled lizard with tiny, useless wings, not a fearsome creature at all - more of a backyard pest than anything. Neal had always felt sad for the dragon - to be cut down by a knight on horseback, squashed like a cockroach – a wholly unequal contest. 

_But in his dream, there is no sign of a knight, and as of yet, no sign of a dragon._

_Neal peers into the cave, afraid to call out, but excited too. There’s a little light shining down from a hole in the cave’s roof, illuminating vast piles of wealth - gold and jewels and all manner of treasure. Soon Neal’s avarice overcomes his fear and he ducks into the cave._

_And he’s startled by a warm, friendly voice and a pair of dark gold eyes that glow from the vast recesses of the cavern._

_“What brings you here, little human?”_

_Neal’s so surprised, he doesn’t lie. “I saw your treasure.”_

_“Ah, so you’re a thief.” There was no anger in the dragon’s voice. “You want my horde?”_

_Neal shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “The thought occurred to me.”_

_He hears the creature moving around, digging through the piles of gold and gems. “Here. Take this; it matches your pretty eyes.” Out of the darkness, a large blue sapphire rolls towards Neal._

_He makes no move to pick it up._

_“Take it; I have no use for it now.” The dragon sounds sad._

_Neal is torn. He wants to grab the gemstone and run, but the dragon is so unexpectedly interesting._

_“What, this is not to your liking, little human?” There’s a rumble of discontent in the dragon’s voice. “Or do you want more? This is a one-time offer. I usually eat thieves.”_

_“No, no. I just thought that maybe we could talk for a while.” Neal isn’t quite sure where that came from._

_A curl of smoke, warm and as fragrant as the rarest myrrh drifts through the cavern. “Talk, that’s a new one.”_

_Neal sinks to the ground, sitting cross-legged like a child. “What’s wrong with talking, Sir Dragon?”_

_“Hmmmm, nothing. But humans don’t want to talk. They want my treasure, they want my blood.”_

_“Your treasure is wonderful.” Neal has to admit that._

_This time, the dragon didn’t chuckle, he laughed. The earth trembled. “Yes, my horde is magnificent. But it bores me. Gold and pretty gems have no voice. Your voice, though - that I like. It’s nice, better than the shrieks of the maidens the villagers send every year.”_

_“Do you eat them, too?”_

_Another curl of smoke clouds the cavern, disguising the dragon’s eyes. “Do you have any idea how nasty those silly girls would taste? I just tell them to cowboy up and get the hell out of my home.” The dragon huffs, mildly insulted. Neal laughs too._

_He settles in, enjoying the dragon’s company. The hours passed as they chat. The creature was very worldly, very knowledgeable about almost everything, but especially art and politics and music._

_At one point, Neal gets up to flex his legs._

_“Do you sing, little human?”_

_Neal admitted that he did, sometimes. “In the shower.”_

_“Sing something for me.” The command is implacable, but then the dragon relents. “Please.”_

_“What would you like to hear, Sir Dragon?”_

_“Hmmm” The chamber rumbled again. “What about ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ - the Ella Fitzgerald version, if you please.”_

_Neal prefers the Sinatra one, but if the dragon want Ella, he’ll get Ella. He closes his eyes, breathes deep - from the belly - and starts to sing._

__There’s a saying old, says that love is blind  
Still we’re often told, "seek and ye shall find"  
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind__

__Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet  
He’s the big affair I cannot forget  
Only man I ever think of with regret__

__I’d like to add his initial to my monogram  
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?__

 _As Neal sings, the dragon rumbles a pleasing counterpoint and all of the riches in the cavern began to vibrate at the right harmonic. It makes Neal’s toes curl, the hair on the back of his neck stand up and resonates in, of all places, in his cock, which is getting pleasantly chubby._

__**Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed  
Follow my lead, oh, how I need  
Someone to watch over me  
Someone to watch over me**

_“Very nice, little human.”_

_Neal thanks the dragon, and settles back against the wall._

_“Do you dance?” Now that was a very odd question._

_“Ummm, I like to go to the clubs.”_

_“And shake that pretty ass, I bet.”_

_Neal grinned, very flattered that the dragon noticed one of his best assets._

_“You don’t ballroom dance though, do you?”_

_Okay - that was an even odder question. “No - that I don’t do.”_

_“Pity - I like to tango. Don’t get much chance these days.”_

_Neal blinked. Tango?_

_He was about to ask the dragon just how he managed to do that when the clop-clop of an approaching horse interrupted him._

_The cavern filled with a dark, acrid smoke as the dragon turns from playful friend to angry beast._

_“What is it?”_

_“Not what, but who. It’s the George. He’s coming for me. Again.”_

_Neal’s horrified. Why would anyone want to kill this wonderful creature?_

_“Stay down, stay safe, Neal.” The dragon’s voice becomes familiar, beloved._

_“Peter, what are you doing?” This is why he was so comfortable with the dragon – he must have known it wasn’t any ordinary creature._

_“This time, I’m not backing down.” The dragon/Peter climbs out of the shadows. He’s magnificent, long and lean and full of danger. The light shining into the cave illuminates black scales that shine with all the colors of the rainbow. The dragons’ face – it’s not truly Peter’s except for the eyes – is furrowed in anger. “Do as I say, Neal. Stay out of this.”_

_Neal presses against the wall as Peter the Dragon glides past him, to meet the knight on horseback. But as soon as Peter’s outside, Neal runs after him._

_The contest is far more even than the one in the Raphael – Peter wraps his body around the white horse and the armored knight. The girl in the background is now shrieking like the figure in Edvard Munch’s famous painting. It looks as if Peter’s is going to triumph, but the knight, coward that he is, pulls a gun and shoots Peter between the eyes. The dragon’s body falls to the ground, graceful even in death._

_The knight dismounts and opens his helmet. It’s Adler. The girl in the red dress stops screaming and runs towards them. But she’s no maiden fair. It’s Alex._

_Neal stands there, stunned. “Why? Why did you kill him?”_

_“He was going to change you.”_

_Neal shook his head. “No, he already changed me. From the very first time, he changed me.”_

_Adler laughed. “And you think, for the better?”_

_Neal dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the dragon’s body. “No, Peter…no.”_

_He didn’t hear Adler and Alex ride off. He didn’t care about them._

It wasn’t Neal’s tossing and turning that woke Peter, it was his singing.

“Someone to waaaaaatch ovvvvvvvvvver meeeeeeee”

El teased him about his tendency to talk in his sleep, but to his knowledge his never sang. He leaned up on one elbow and watched the expressions fly across Neal’s face. It was really rather amazing how expressive his face was in unguarded sleep. Peter watched as happiness, puzzlement and amusement were like little flickers, small sparks of emotion radiating out of his lover.

At least it wasn’t a nightmare. Those were occurring with too much frequency. 

As Peter watched, the joy turned to terror and Neal gasped, “No, Peter.” His eyes opened, pupils dilated, unfocused, his head turned, seeking something, someone. 

“Shhh, it’s all right.” Peter wrapped his arms around Neal. “It’s all right.” He felt his lover’s heart race, his skin grow clammy with sweat. Neal struggled and tried to break free, but Peter wouldn’t let go. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

“Light – I need to see you.” Neal gasped.

Peter let go long enough to turn on the bedside light. He blinked hard against the sudden brightness. As his eyes adjusted, Neal grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him close. He buried his face into the crook of Peter’s neck. 

Peter kept stroking Neal, he was shaking, terrified. But he didn’t press. Neal had been having nightmares regularly. For the past two months, there wasn’t a week when he didn’t wake up gasping from some night terror – and those were the nights when Peter was sleeping next to him. He didn’t want to think about Neal waking up alone like that.

He knew that as much as he pressed Neal to talk about it, Neal would refuse. The pattern was familiar – he’d ask and Neal would deflect, he’d beg Neal to talk and he’d try to distract him – usually with sex. It worked in a way – because whatever Neal was dreaming about, he needed the closeness of skin and touch. 

Peter was a patient man – but he was only going to let this go so far. He loved Neal, he worried about him, and he could see the tool that the nightmares were taking on him. But now wasn’t the time to shake the tree – now was the time to give comfort.

Neal kissed him hard and wouldn’t let go, it was as if it were trying to breathe through Peter’s body. His desperation was evident in the hands that clutched at his shoulders, the legs the restlessly twined with his, the whispered _Peter, Peter, Peter_ as he finally broke for air.

Peter hated himself for his arousal, but he didn’t push away Neal’s greedy hands or his greedier mouth. He let Neal suck him, giving himself over to the frantic lovemaking, and told himself before he came, that he’d find a way to help Neal deal with this – whatever _this was_ before it destroyed both of them.

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Neal couldn’t ever remember being quite this cold. Not even the first winter in prison, when he had gotten beat up and had his bedding stolen and was forced to cover himself with rancid, insect infested straw to keep warm.

Wait - that was wrong. He had his own cell - who would have thrashed him? And he had his own sheets and blankets, special ordered. Neal shook his head - trying to reconcile reality with the world of this dream.

  
_NEVER TO BE FINISHED_   



End file.
